


As The Queen Commands

by SummerSwan



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Cheating, F/M, Rape/Non-con References, Revenge, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-25
Updated: 2013-10-06
Packaged: 2017-12-06 10:30:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 77,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/734654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SummerSwan/pseuds/SummerSwan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“He doesn’t deserve you.”</p><p>“No, he doesn’t,” Sansa agrees. “Ser Jaime, I’m not sure how to say this, so I’m just going to be blunt. I want you to help me kill the King.”</p><p>In which Cersei dies, Robert takes his son’s betrothed as his new queen, and Jaime decides it’s about time he killed another king.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Jaime I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “He doesn’t deserve you.” Jaime isn’t sure why he says it, but when the words leave his lips they feel right.
> 
> “No, he doesn’t,” Sansa agrees. “Ser Jaime, I’m not sure how to say this, so I’m just going to be blunt. I want you to help me kill the king.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick warning: There will be some rape/non-con references in this story.
> 
> Also, I have used the show ages for the girls, making Sansa 17 and Arya 15 at the time this story begins

In a month, four years will have passed since his sister’s death. Not a day has gone by since then that he has not relived her last, desperate moments, has not thought of her, dreamed of her, _yearned_ for her. Jaime never truly liked King’s Landing, it already held too many dark memories for him by the time Robert was crowned, but without Cersei it is nearly impossible to find any part of the place he does not find ugly, and it only grows uglier with every passing day. It infuriates him whenever he hears someone declare the Red Keep has brightened since the new queen was crowned, as if Ned Stark’s insipid, blushing maiden of a daughter is somehow superior to his fierce, lion-hearted sister.

It is not uncommon for Jaime Lannister to think on how Sansa Stark is a poor replacement for his sister. Such thoughts usually come to him when he is made to stand guard outside her bedchambers at night. It is far more difficult to declare her an unworthy queen in the light of day when she has nothing but kind words for Cersei’s ( _his_ ) children, when she sways her oafish husband toward the path of mercy instead of vengeance, when the smallfolk look upon her with barely concealed worship while she hands out golden dragons on the streets of Flea Bottom, and when her hair shines in the sun like red gold, making her look like the Maiden reborn in the winter blue and gray gowns she favors.

But outside her chambers at night it becomes clear to Jaime that Queen Sansa doesn’t have the same fire as Queen Cersei, that she doesn’t have it in her to survive this horrid place or her even more horrid husband much longer. It is obvious to anyone with eyes that the Queen has little if any love for her husband. While she attends Small Council with her father, Robert enjoys his whores in all corners of the Red Keep, sometimes not even having the grace to hide his infidelities behind closed doors. The young Sansa he remembers meeting at Winterfell loved songs and pretty things and looked at his nephew ( _his son_ ) as if he was the golden knight she had been waiting for her entire life. Even in her worst nightmares, Jaime doesn’t think she ever imagined she would end up with a bitter, drunk, licentious old man like Robert Baratheon who grows fatter by the day and now looks upon her gray-eyed little sister with shameless lust. And, yet, when the King stumbles drunkenly to her chambers at night, the Queen does nothing. The only noises Jaime ever hears through the door are Robert’s grunts and complaints that she’s never wet enough for him, and he can just picture the girl, lying dutifully back, reciting prayers in her head as she waits for it all to be over. Cersei would have fought. Cersei always fought. Cersei was going to kill the bastard.

The queen’s second pregnancy has granted her a brief respite from her husband’s unwanted attentions. He wonders if the little queen had been clever enough to make that happen by claiming it was best for the baby, just as Cersei had done each time she grew full with child. In the early months of this pregnancy, Queen Sansa had glowed in a way that left even him in awe of her. But as her stomach grows larger and the birth draws nearer, her face grows darker and her eyes seem further and further away. It seems not even her smiling, blue-eyed son Rickard can cheer her up anymore. In all the years he’s been guarding her, they’ve hardly said more than a few words to each other, but her increasing misery wears on him until sometimes it’s all he can concentrate on.

The honorable Lord Eddard Stark should have run his best friend through with that ridiculous longsword of his years ago for the way Robert treats his precious daughter. But Jaime remembers the way the solemn man looked at him with disgust when he found the Mad King’s corpse at his feet and knows Ned doesn’t have it in him to be a Kingslayer.

He always assumed Queen Sansa Baratheon was just as much a martyr for duty as her father. That is why it comes as a shock when he opens the door to his chambers, more than ready to divest himself of his heavy armor after a long day of sparring with Ser Loras, to find the Queen sitting at the edge of his bed, hands folded primly in her lap. It is dark in the room and for a moment he mistakes her for Cersei, thinking she has come to him for a quick, passionate tryst before the King will start to question where she has gone. But even in the darkness, Sansa’s auburn hair manages to catch the faint light of the single candle she has lit and shine in a way that makes his breath catch.

“Your Grace—”

“No one can know I was here,” she says, before he can ask her what the hell she is doing in his chambers. “Especially the King. Can you promise me that, Ser Jaime? Or should I just go?”

Jaime has kept plenty of secrets from kings and lords and the entire the realm for that matter, is still keeping them to this day, so without a flicker of hesitation he answers with, “Certainly, Your Grace. What troubles you?”

He moves closer to have a better look at her face and finds a twisted, bitter smile there that reminds him painfully of his sister. “A great deal troubles me, Ser Jaime,” she answers, voice soft as a whisper. “But I think you might be able to help me. I’ve seen the way you—you look at my husband, and I know you have no more love for him than I do.”

“I swore to serve him not to love him, Your Grace.”

“As did I,” she murmurs, and he thinks he can see the glistening of tears in the corners of her pretty blue eyes. “But I also vowed to be a good and just queen when they placed the crown on my head, and I think I let my kingdom down by continuing to allow Robert to rule them.”

Jaime’s heart begins to thump violently against his chest. Surely she can’t truly mean what he thinks she means. Surely he misunderstands her. If nothing else the Starks are dutiful creatures. They are the kind of family that would never dream of slaying a king, the kind of family that prefers to look down their noses at the likes of him for that very reason. “Your Grace—?”

“Call me Sansa, if you will, while we speak of this at least,” she requests, as her hands move from her lap to rest over the roundness of her belly. “I fear if you keep reminding me I’m the Queen, I will lose the nerve to say what I am about to say.”

“I’m listening, _Sansa_.” The feeling of her name on his tongue is so foreign and yet so familiar at the same time. The hiss it starts and ends with reminds him of a different name, a name he still whispers into his pillow every night.

“Sit, Ser Jaime,” she orders gently, patting the spot next to her. It has been so long since he has been with a woman that their mere proximity to each other when he eases down on to the bed causes his cock to twitch. “Please do not be frightened or overreact to what I am about to say. I did not come here with any intention of threatening you."

“Well, that’s a comforting way to begin a conversation,” he quips, annoyed by the nervous tremor in his voice. The assurance does little to quell the panic now building inside him. He is a man of many dangerous secrets; he wonders which of them Sansa has stumbled upon, as he silently prays to the gods he doesn’t believe in that it’s not the worst of them all. When she gives him a sharp look, he sighs and relents, “I will do my best.”

She nods and places one of her tiny, delicate hands over his sword hand, as if afraid he might reach for his weapon. The touch of her palm feels impossibly hot against his skin. “I have discovered—I have discerned—” She pauses and takes a deep breath. “I _know_ that Joffrey, Myrcella, and Tommen are not Robert’s trueborn children. I _know_ they are yours.”

He lunges from the bed to pace on the other side of the room and almost _does_ reach for his sword. If he’s killed a king, certainly he can kill a queen just as easily. It occurs to him that he ought to deny the accusation first though, ought to pretend he’s enraged and act like the very thought of bedding his twin sister disgusts him before he resorts to killing the Queen, but the calm, almost sad way Sansa watches him pace makes it clear enough nothing he could say would convince her of his innocence. With a hand pressed to the pommel of his sword, he begins, “And what do you intend—?”

“I don’t care,” she interrupts, waving one of her hands at him. “You two loved each other, I imagine, and Robert is not a kind man, not anymore at least. I think he must have been once, to have earned my father’s love. But I—I, well, I understand the choice you two made, in a way. I’d rather lay with Robb or Jon than have Robert ever touch me again.”

The unexpectedly embittered confession hits him like a punch in the gut, knocking the breath of out of him and leaving him speechless in front of her. After a moment of silence, she sighs and says, “I’m not the only one who knows the truth, so kindly let go of your sword. Killing me will do you no good. Jon Arryn was on to your secret before he passed away, and it seems he might have shared some of his suspicions with Lord Stannis. Petyr Baelish knows as well and possibly Varys. Lord Petyr has been nudging my father along Jon Arryn’s trail toward the truth for a while now, and soon—”

“He might never realize,” Jaime interjects. “Your father is not exactly the sharpest man in the Seven Kingdoms.”

She scowls at him, and he’s once again reminded of Cersei, of her glorious anger and that scornful way she would look upon him when he declared that they ought to marry and let the kingdom be damned. “My father is just as intelligent as you, if not more so,” she snaps. “But he is a good man, too good for this dreadful place. His mind does not jump to the scandalous conclusion first, but it will eventually, and I cannot distract him from it forever.”

“You’ve been distracting him? And why is that? If this comes out, _your_ children will be the heirs to the Iron Throne instead of Cersei’s, and Joffrey hasn’t exactly been chivalrous toward you since Robert broke your betrothal—”

“I’m not doing it for your vile son,” she hisses, narrowing her eyes at him in a way that makes him wonder how he could have ever thought this girl meek. “But Tommen and Myrcella are lovely children, and it would break my heart to see harm come to them because of this. And you—I see the way you look at Robert when he gropes me at supper or pulls a whore on to his lap in front of the entire court, like you want to run him through with your sword right then and there, and for that I cannot bring myself to wish you harm either.”

 _That anger wasn’t for you_ , he almost says. _It was for Cersei. Everything is for Cersei._ “He doesn’t deserve you,” he says instead. He isn’t sure why he says it, but when the words leave his lips they feel right.

“No, he doesn’t,” she agrees. “Ser Jaime, I’m not sure how to say this, so I’m just going to be blunt. I want you to help me kill the King and then I want you to take Tommen, Myrcella, and Joffrey across the Narrow Sea and never look back.”

He snorts. _She’s gone mad_ , is his immediate thought. Part of him wants to laugh at her and tell her to leave, but she is not the first queen to inform him she means to kill her king, and the proposal doesn't shock him nearly as much as it should. “And do you have any notion of how we are going to accomplish this?”

“Baelish tells me your sister had a plan to murder the king before she died,” Sansa says. The way she wrings her hands together as she speaks reminds Jaime of just how young this girl is, too young to look so jaded, too young to be resorting to this. “He claims she meant to have your cousin Lancel feed him wine more potent than he is accustomed to so that he might die of a hunting accident. His current squire is really rather stupid and between the two of us, I think we could manage it.”

“And you don’t think Lord Littlefinger will be suspicious if the plot he just told you about suddenly comes to fruition?”

Sansa smirks, with a dark look in her eyes that Jaime has never seen her wear in all his years of guarding her. “He won’t say a word.”

“You would do well not to trust him, Sansa,” he warns. “He’s charming enough, but—”

“Of course, I am not the fool I once was, Ser Jaime. But once you know what a man wants, you can control him. Lord Petyr taught me that,” she answers cryptically. “Don’t worry about him. You’ll be across the Narrow Sea long before he comes into play anyways.”

“And how do I know your father won’t just send men after me if I leave?” he challenges. “Or one of Robert’s brothers?”

“Father wouldn’t. He would offer you the same mercy,” she answers. “As for the others, I will still be their queen, and I won’t let them. You have my word.”

“And what is your word worth to me?”

“ _Everything_ ,” she declares with a ferocity that compels him to take a step back from her. As she stands from the bed and stretches to her full height, he’s surprised to find she reaches just above his shoulder now, remarkably tall for her age. Sometimes he forgets she’s not that girl from Winterfell anymore, that she’s a woman grown. “They _will_ find out about your children, Ser Jaime. All the plotting in the world won’t be able to bury that secret forever, so don’t even think about trying to betray me because I promise I will destroy you. But if you help me with this, I will give you the chance to start over somewhere far away from this godsforsaken place with enough coin to begin a new life, a better life. And I will give you the chance to kill the man that hurt your sister before you leave it all behind. I will grant you vengeance and freedom.”

She moves closer to him with every word until they’re so close he could reach out and pull her into him if he wanted. It crosses his mind to do just that, to kiss her breathless, to run his hands through her silky mane of auburn locks, and to cuckold Robert for a second time. Part of him doesn’t think she’d push him away. The idea makes his cock more than twitch this time, but he resists because there are far more important things at hand than the way her full breasts push against her gown or the way she smells of lemon and sweet honey or the fact that talking about killing Robert Baratheon is bizarrely arousing.

“Using your sister’s own plan for him on the anniversary of her death will be a nice tribute to her, don’t you think?”

Jaime can’t believe those words are coming from sweet, pious Sansa Stark’s mouth, but she has the right of it. He can think of few gifts Cersei would appreciate more than this one. “If you can get the wine, I can ensure it ends up in his personal cask,” he says, knowing the words have officially entered him into a pact with the Queen. “And then—?”

“Tomorrow I will announce my intention to temporarily release you from your duties at the end of the month so that you may bring her children to Casterly Rock to properly mourn their mother on the anniversary of her passing. That way no one will question it when you board a ship with them after Robert’s death, and I’ll make certain that ship brings you to Pentos or Braavos or wherever it is you wish to go.”

“How? How can you manage that?”

“I have my ways.”

A smirk spreads across her lips again, a smirk that he’s seen plenty of times on Lord Littlefinger’s lips but never hers. “This could end with all of our heads on spikes, you know, and I happen to have grown rather fond of mine.”

“I know, but even that seems a far better fate than the one I am living now.”

The statement breaks his heart, and it is all he can do not to wrap his arms around her and comfort her in the way he used to comfort Cersei when she came to him like this. Though Cersei would have never allowed such a vulnerable statement to pass her lips; he likes that Sansa does not share the same fear. Her eyes lock on his and the smirk disappears, leaving the fragile, lovely face of the girl from Winterfell he remembers in its place. He’s suddenly struck by the urge to _protect_ her, to be the knight she always wanted, as if he were even remotely qualified for such a task. “True knights protect the innocent above all else, and that is all I am asking you to do, Ser Jaime.”

The thought that _he_ , the fucking Kingslayer, of all people is a true knight strikes him as so preposterous he almost laughs, but she is looking up at him like he’s Aemon the Dragonknight come again, and he can’t find it in himself to let her down, not like he let Cersei down. “Then that’s what I’ll do. And when will we carry out this murderous little plan of yours?”

“The babe will be born in no more than a month’s time,” she says, stroking her full belly again. “Robert will go hunting when the labor starts, like he did with Rickard and all of your sister’s children. You will accompany him on that hunt and make sure our plan is carried out properly. Perhaps you can goad him into taking an unnecessary risk once he’s fully in his cups. He’s not one to step down from a challenge. When you return, I will make sure the ship is waiting for your trip to the Rock. You must leave immediately, so I suggest packing your things the night before the hunt.”

He feels the smile stretch across his lips and is powerless to stop it. “You are nearly as devious as my beloved sister, Seven bless her soul,” Jaime laughs, reaching forward to run a tentative finger along the sharp slope of her cheekbone. “I didn’t think you had it in you. My sister certainly didn’t think so either. _Stupid little dove_ , she used to call you.”

“I never wanted to be devious,” she sighs, as she leans into his touch, like a child starved for attention. “I wanted to be a dutiful wife, a doting mother, a good and merciful queen, but I fear this place brings out the worst in all of us.”

 _It has brought out the best in you, little wolf,_ he wants to argue but holds his tongue, knowing she won’t appreciate the sentiment. While he can’t think of killing Robert as anything but noble, he’s sure Sansa and her father wouldn’t agree even now, even after all he’s done. “After Robert is gone you’ll be free to be all of those things,” he assures her, and he’s rewarded with a small smile and a chaste kiss to his palm that sends a jolt surging through him. “And how shall we seal our agreement?”

He’s pleased when a blush spreads across her cheeks. “With a kiss, I should think.”

The answer surprises him, and his eyes immediately drop down to her lips. They look soft and sweet and _red_. He wonders how they would feel against his, but Cersei’s are the only lips he has ever kissed, and the mere thought of pressing his to Sansa's fills him guilt. It comes as a relief when instead of leaning forward, Sansa holds out her hand. He smirks and places a soft kiss to her knuckles.

“I’m sorry I will not be able to keep you with me,” she admits, still holding on to his hand. “I’ve come to admire you.”

Jaime snorts again. “I killed a king, I’ve just agreed to kill another, and I slept with my own sister behind the King’s back for years, helping produce three false heirs to the throne. What exactly is it about me you admire?”

“You did it all for love,” she sighs, releasing his hand and stepping away. “I should like someone to love me like you loved her someday.” She straightens out her skirts and then moves for the door, pausing when her hand touches the knob. “We must not speak of this outside of this room; the walls have ears. If we need to discuss anything further, I will find a way for us to meet, but you must wait for me to come to you. In a month’s time,” she adds. “A month.”

“A month,” he echoes. She begins to turn the knob, but he realizes he can’t let her leave without asking a question that has plagued him for years. “Sansa, just one more thing before you go.” When she turns back to him, he continues, “Did you or your father have anything to do with my sister’s death?”

Sansa’s expression is unreadable to him, but she shakes her head. “With the intent of making me the Queen in her place, you mean? No, my father didn’t want me to be Robert Baratheon’s queen any more than I wanted to be. I never wanted the power that came with being a queen, Ser Jaime, I just wanted to marry your son and give him a dozen beautiful, green-eyed, fair-haired babies. And I rather admired your sister back then. My father is not that sort of man, and I think you know that. Roses are far more opportunistic than wolves.”

The meaning of her last statement isn’t lost on him. “The Tyrells then?”

“It might have simply been a sudden illness as the maester suggested. I certainly don’t have the evidence to refute him, but on the road to King’s Landing, I overhead Lord Renly asking my father if Margaery Tyrell bore any resemblance to my late Aunt Lyanna, the only woman my husband ever truly loved. I will let you work out the rest.” Jaime only nods, wishing her words came as more of a shock. “I’m sorry, Jaime,” she adds softly, and with that, she disappears through the door, shutting it behind her without a sound.

Part of him doesn’t want to leave Westeros after he kills Robert Baratheon. Part of him wants to stay and kill Renly Baratheon too and as many Tyrells as he can manage before they finally cut him down. But Sansa certainly wouldn’t thank him for it and neither would the children he has never allowed himself to think of as his own until now, now that that Cersei is gone and they need him. He hopes Cersei would want him to see her children to safety rather than strike down her killers. _What she’d really want you to do is scheme a way to still have Joffrey sit the Iron Throne someday_ , he thinks, but he believes Sansa’s warning, that this is a secret that simply won’t remain buried forever, and the idea of leaving his white cloak and this place behind is too tempting to resist.

Finally, he strips off his armor and stretches himself out across his bed, feeling alive for the first time since Cersei passed away in his arms. Many years have gone by since he stabbed Aerys Targaryen in the back, and he knows watching Robert die will be just as satisfying. When he takes himself in his hand, imagining the hungry look in his sister’s eyes when she declared Robert would die, he thinks, _yes, it’s about time I killed another mad king_. And if a flash of auburn hair and wide blue eyes sneaks in while his strokes grow faster and more desperate, he pretends not to notice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This will be an 11-part fic told from the POVs of Jaime, Sansa, Arya, Ned, and Robert. Thank you for reading!


	2. Arya I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It seems like they hardly ever speak anymore, unless Sansa is asking her to put on a dress for some lord her and Father want Arya to marry. It is Jeyne Poole or Margaery Tyrell who shares Sansa’s bed now when Robert keeps to his own chambers. The Queen of Westeros found herself a pair of proper sisters and completely forgot about the one she grew up with.

Arya hates King’s Landing. The entire place seems to reek of piss, and all the lords and ladies just love to look down their noses at her for keeping her hair short and wearing a pair of breeches instead of a dress. It also doesn’t help that her sister is the bloody Queen now. It is no longer _Sansa_ suggesting she wear a dress to welcome some stupid lord and his wife to the Red Keep, it is _The Queen_ commanding her to do so.

Queen Sansa is not the Sansa Stark of Winterfell Arya remembers. Occasionally, Arya will catch a flash of that girl, like when Sansa beamed after Father had the kitchens make lemoncakes for her nameday, but those genuine moments are growing rarer with every day Sansa wears the crown. Back at Winterfell, she and Sansa used to fight all the time, but they at least talked to each other. It seems like they hardly ever speak anymore, unless Sansa is asking her to put on a dress for some lord her and Father want her to marry. It is Jeyne Poole or Margaery Tyrell who shares Sansa’s bed now when Robert keeps to his own chambers. The Queen of Westeros found herself a pair of proper sisters and completely forgot about the one she grew up with.

The only thing about Sansa’s reign Arya has enjoyed is her sister’s decision to summon Robert’s bastard children to King’s Landing. When Sansa first welcomed the group of blue-eyed, black-haired children into her castle, it bothered Arya to see Sansa treating them more warmly than she ever treated Jon Snow, and it wasn’t difficult to see the choice for what it really was—a move to get into her new husband’s good graces, to set herself apart from Cersei Lannister. But Arya doesn’t truly care about the motives behind it, because it gave her Mya Stone and her stories of the Vale and the Moon Clans and the mules, Bella Rivers and her bawdy songs and inappropriate jokes, and Gendry Waters, especially Gendry Waters.

Sometimes she feels like they are the only ones in King’s Landing who don’t treat her like some fragile little lady. She had initially judged Gendry the most boring of the bastards when he did nothing but brood and grumble about how lowly bastard blacksmiths don’t belong in the Red Keep. But the more she gets to know him, the more she appreciates his rejection of the highborn life and his discomfort around the lords and ladies of the Red Keep that mirrors her own. They are both outcasts here.

Since Syrio Forel returned to Braavos, Gendry is the only person who doesn’t politely turn her away when she asks to spar. He doesn’t care that she is a daughter of Winterfell or that women aren’t supposed to wield swords, and because of that she finds she doesn’t care that he spends half his time moping about or how stupid he looks when he’s thinking really hard about something.

“What’s wrong with you? You look like you want to hit something.”

Arya frowns at Gendry and whacks one of his shins with her wooden training sword. The pained grunt he lets out in response makes her smile. “Maybe I do,” she says. “Put up your sword, Waters.”

“You know, we could always talk about what’s bothering you instead of you trying to take my head off with that thing,” he suggests, eying her sword warily. “Does your sister want to marry you off again? Or did she just have a new dress made for you?”

“Both,” Arya spits. “The new dress was made so I could make a good impression on the Lord of Starfall when he visits. I told Sansa I don’t want to marry some stupid, violet-eyed knight, but she thinks I’d like Dorne.”

“I’ve heard highborn ladies like you fighting isn’t such a strange sight in Dorne,” Gendry says. “Maybe you _would_ like it there?”

The response makes her inexplicably angry with him, and she whacks him in the shin again, hoping to spark a fight so she won’t have to talk about this anymore. Gendry isn’t supposed to be on her sister’s side. He is supposed to agree that Lord Edric Dayne is stupid and that Sansa and her father have no right to send her to Starfall. “Don’t be stupid. He won’t let me fight. He’ll want me to a proper little wife like Sansa who wears dresses and has lots of babies and ignores it when he fucks whores right in front of me.”

“Not all men are—are like _him_ , you know.” Arya has never heard Gendry refer to Robert Baratheon as his father or even as the King. Though he never actually voices it, Arya can see Gendry’s contempt for his father plainly in his dark blue eyes whenever he’s mentioned. “And what’s wrong with babies? Don’t you want children?”

“No, I want to fight and have adventures and go to Braavos to find Syrio and—”

“All right, all right, I get it, you don’t want to be _anyone’s_ wife,” Gendry grumbles, holding up his hands as if surrendering. There is a distinctly irritated tone to his voice that confuses her. Why should Gendry care if she doesn’t want children or a husband? “But you’re the Queen’s sister and a Lady of Winterfell, I don’t really see another option for you.”

“And what about _you_?” Arya challenges, openly scowling at him now. “You’re a king’s bastard. There are plenty of ladies and knight’s daughters who would agree to marry you. Do you want a stupid, pretty wife and lots of babies then?”

Gendry shrugs. “I always thought I’d have a wife someday. I never thought she’d be a lady though.”

The answer feels like a betrayal. With Jon Snow at the Wall, Arya feels like the only person around who really understands her anymore is Gendry and now he is acting just like the rest of them. “Well, fine then, I hope—”

“That’s not really why you’re all mad though, is it?” Gendry interrupts. “Your father and sister have tried to marry you off a couple times now, but they’ve never forced you.”

“This might be the time Sansa finally loses her patience with me."

“Maybe, but probably not, you’re still only five-and-ten, and your father wouldn’t make you if you really didn’t want to. No, I think you’re actually mad about what _he_ did during breakfast this morning.”

Arya’s entire body tenses and her grip on the sword tightens, as she remembers the King abandoning Sansa at the high table to walk off with a busty, dark-haired kitchen wench. The buzz of whispers and sighs that followed had made Arya want to punch everyone in the room in the face, but the serene way Sansa went about finishing her meal as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred troubles her much more than the whispers. Arya knows things will never change for her sister if she keeps insisting on doing absolutely nothing when Robert Baratheon makes a fool out of her in front of the court time and time again.

“Shut up and get your sword,” she snaps, marching out to the sparring yard without another word. Luckily, he takes the hint and follows silently after her, holding out his own wooden sword.

Arya makes the first move by stepping to the side and slashing Gendry across the ribs before he can react. Gendry might tower over her, but his raw power never stands much of a chance against her practiced grace. Their matches are usually slaughters, leaving Gendry with a sea of bruises littering his skin and Arya with a triumphant smile on her face. But, every now and then, he’ll catch her off guard and land a rare hit, but Arya suspects he puts only about half the power he’s really capable of behind them.

“Too slow, Waters,” she taunts, when his sword hits nothing but air.

Gendry grunts and slashes his sword forward, only to miss her again. “How the hell do you move so fast?”

_I chase stray cats_ , she thinks, but she’s not sure even Gendry would understand Syrio’s unconventional training methods. “You’re just slow,” she says, ruthlessly striking at the back of one of his knees.

“Maybe, but I’m a hell of a lot stronger than you.” Before Arya can fully grasp what is happening, Gendry drops his sword, charges straight at her, and tosses her over his shoulder. “What do you have to say to that, huh?” he laughs, as he spins them around.

Arya responds by thwacking her sword relentlessly against whatever parts of his body she can reach while slung over his shoulder, but none of her blows seem to have much effect. “Let me down, Waters! This is against the rules!”

“Since when do you care about the _rules_ , m’lady?” Gendry teases. “Maybe the game has changed? Perhaps I am just a strong, gallant knight rescuing my fair maiden. Didn’t you ever play knights and maidens?”

“I am _not_ a fair maiden and you’re not a knight,” she grumbles, giving up her attack on his backside after one last particularly brutal strike. “Now, would you put me down already?” But as the words leave her lips, Arya finds herself almost hoping he _won’t_ put her down. There is something nice about being pressed against him like this. There is something nice about his strong, callused hands holding on to the back of her thighs. For a moment, she allows herself to imagine what those hands would feel like against her bare skin and feels her face flush. She quickly reminds herself that she is no blushing maiden and decides they are entirely too close. “Let me down!” she demands again, with more force this time. “Gendry!”

“Let her down now, boy!” The booming voice catches Gendry so off guard he practically throws her down into the dirt. When she scrambles back to her feet, she sees King Robert marching toward them with Ser Meryn and Ser Mandon close at his heels. “What in the gods’ names do you think you’re doing, boy?” the King roars, his ruddy face twisted with rage. “Don’t you know who this girl is? Do you think the Hand of the King would appreciate a bastard boy like you groping his daughter—”

“He was not _groping_ me!” Arya interjects. Without thinking, she places herself in between Gendry and the King. “We were just sparring.”

The King’s face softens slightly when he looks at her. “And since when does sparring involve picking up one’s opponent, my lady?”

_I am not your lady_ , she almost snaps. “We were just playing around. There’s no reason to be angry with him. Father wouldn’t care.”

“It is not proper for a bastard boy or any boy to be touching you like that, my lady,” he says, before looking over Arya’s head to Gendry again. “I ought to send you off to Flea Bottom where you belong for this, boy. Do you think just because you’re my seed you can take liberties with a daughter of Winterfell? Don’t let this place go to your head. You’re still nothing but a bastard son of a whore, and if I see you anywhere near her again, I will not hesitate to send you back—”

“No!” Arya screams. There is panic building inside of her now. There is no way she can let the King take Gendry away from her as well, not while she is stuck in this awful place. “Gendry is my _friend_! And he wasn’t doing anything wrong!”

“Your Grace, I am so sorry. I did not mean—”

“Save your excuses for someone who’ll believe them, boy,” Robert sneers. “I know well enough what young men are like. I know what you want from this girl, and you’re not going to get it. Now go to your chambers and think about how you’re going to apologize to Lord Stark for this mess or start packing your things.”

Gendry nods and walks away from them with his head hanging low and without any sort of fight. The early retreat leaves her even angrier than before. Doesn’t he care the King is about to separate them? “He wasn’t do anything wrong!” she shouts again.

Robert moves closer to her then, far closer than Arya is comfortable with, and presses one of his large hands to her cheek.  Though she hadn’t minded Gendry’s hands on her moments ago, Robert’s make her feel nervous and even a little sick. “I’m just trying to protect you, sweet girl,” the King chuckles. “Bastards are notoriously wanton, you know. That boy won’t stop until he’s taken far more than a kiss from you and put a bastard in your belly.”

_Are you talking about Gendry or you, Your Grace?_ “It’s not like _that_. He’s my friend.”

“Don’t let them fool you. They’ll all want more than friendship from a lady with a face like yours,” he sighs, running his thumb down her nose and over her lips. She rips herself away from the touch, but his eyes don’t leave her. The intensity of his stare tears through her until she feels like she is standing naked and exposed in front of him.

“I’m not beautiful. _Sansa_ , your wife, is the beautiful one.”

The King scowls and shakes his head. “And who told you that? Your sister or one of her insipid companions? Your sister is a pretty little flower, but she’s no winter rose like you, my lady. It is incredible how much you look like your Aunt Lyanna. Has your father ever told you about her? She was my Queen of Love and Beauty once, and there was no maid more lovely in the Seven Kingdoms than her. And sometimes I look at you and think you might be even more beautiful than she was.”

The hunger in King Robert’s dark blue eyes as he speaks makes her insides twist painfully. When he moves toward her again, she notices he is looking at her the same way he looked at the dark-haired kitchen girl at breakfast. Though Arya knows even fat, drunken Robert would never dare touch her out in the open like this, she still finds herself sprinting away from him before he can take another step near her. And she doesn’t stop running until she finally reaches the Small Council chambers.

“I need to speak with my father, the Hand of the King,” she pants to Ser Boros Blount, who is leaning against the door as if too tired to stand. “Immediately.”

Blount just shakes his head. “I’ve been ordered not to let anyone in, my lady.”

“But I’m the Hand’s daughter! He’d tell you to let me in!”

“Orders are orders, my lady. If you need something, the Queen is her chambers with a headache and might agree to see you.”

_No, I don’t want Sansa,_ Arya thinks. Sansa wouldn’t understand any better than the King that she and Gendry were just friends. She would probably cringe at the story and say it was improper for her to be so close to a bastard boy, even if he was Robert’s bastard. And if her indifference to Robert’s infidelities were any indicator, she wouldn’t give a damn about the way Robert had looked at her either.

“I _need_ to see my father.”

“The Hand of the King is _busy_ , my lady,” Blount drawls, not even bothering to look at her anymore. If he hadn’t been leaning his huge body against the door, she would have simply darted past him. Instead she shoots him one last glare that he doesn’t even seem to notice and grudgingly makes her way to Sansa’s chambers.

It has been months since Arya last saw Sansa’s rooms, and she only ventured inside them that time because her sister had been in bed with severe stomach pain and Pycelle feared she might lose the babe. They are much too close to the King’s chambers for her liking, and it seems either Jeyne Poole or Margaery Tyrell is always there. Most likely both girls would be there today, fawning and fussing over Sansa as if a headache was some sort of great catastrophe. Even though Sansa is _her_ sister, Arya knows both girls will look at her as if somehow _she_ is the one who doesn’t belong there, and it will take far more convincing than it ought to for them to allow Arya a private audience with her own fucking sister.

It doesn’t surprise her to find Jaime Lannister pacing outside of Sansa’s door. He is charged with guarding the Queen more often than not these days. Arya isn’t sure if that is because the King hates him or because the Queen prefers his company to the rest of the Kingsguard, but she suspect it is a little of both. The Kingslayer is exactly the kind of man Sansa has always swooned over, so handsome and golden he borders on _pretty_. “I need to see my sister straight away,” she declares, as she crosses her arms in front of her chest and prepares for a fight. “Alone. It’s important.”

The Kingslayer raises an eyebrow but only says, “Of course, my lady.” He pushes open the chamber doors and peeks his head inside. “Your Grace, your sister Lady Arya requests a private audience.”

There’s a brief pause. “Let her in then. Thank you, Ser.”

The Kingslayer steps back and motions Arya inside. When the doors close behind her, she turns to find Sansa sewing something in front of the fire. “What’s that?” Arya asks, surprised by the gray color of the fabric. Everything her sister makes these days seems to be in Baratheon black and gold.

“A blanket for the babe,” Sansa mumbles, eyes still focused on her stitches, straight and perfect as ever.

“But it’s gray.”

“And?”

“Your babe will be a stag not a wolf.”

Sansa’s hands freeze at that, and she looks up at Arya as if she has just slapped her. “The babe will be a stag _and_ a wolf, unless Father has recently disowned me and no one thought to inform me of it,” she says, her voice smooth despite the annoyance shining in her eyes. “What is it that you want, Arya? I have a rather spectacular headache, and I’m not inclined to argue with you at the moment.”

Arya has to force herself not to roll her eyes. Not even a minute alone together, and she has already managed to upset her sister, and the more upset Sansa got, the more likely she’d be to ignore Arya’s problem. “I had an argument with the King.”

Sansa sighs and gently places her sewing to the side. “What did you do?”

“I didn’t do _anything_! I was just sparring in the training yard with Gendry, and he picked me up as a jape! And then suddenly your stupid, fat husband comes wobbling over and yelling about sending Gendry away like he was doing something wrong! But we were only _sparring_. He’s my friend, and we were messing around, and now your husband is going to send him away, and it’s not fair!” Arya shouts, almost all in one breath.

Sansa’s bright blue eyes widen slightly, but other than that nothing about her expression changes. “He’s the King, Arya.”

“ _What_?”

“You keep referring to him as _your husband_ when you ought to be referring to him as _the King_. This is the Red Keep, Arya. People are always listening to what we say, even here. You should know that,” she answers calmly.

“Let them listen! I don’t care,” Arya snaps. “I hate him. He’s cruel to Gendry, and he’s cruel to you, and he looks at me—Sansa, the way he looks at me—”

“I know,” Sansa says softly, as she stands from her seat. Arya wonders when her sister had grown so tall. _She must be even taller than mother now._ “The King was very much in love with his first betrothed, our late Aunt Lyanna, and everyone who knew her mentions how much you’ve come to resemble her lately.”

“But Lyanna was _pretty_ ,” Arya counters, growing increasingly frustrated by the comparison. “I bet no one ever called her horseface.”

Sansa’s eyebrows furrow. “Has Jeyne called you that recently? I told her to stop.”

“No, but—”

“It wasn’t very kind of us, to call you that,” Sansa adds. “And I’m sorry for it; I’m not sure if I ever apologized. You must know it was just a jape though, yes? You called me stupid, and I called you horseface. But you _are_ quite beautiful, Arya, and I hope you don’t think me truly stupid.”

There is something about Sansa calling her beautiful that almost makes her want to smile, but there are more important things at stake at the moment, and she didn’t come here to talk about their childhood. “What are you going to do about your— _the King_? Will you tell him not to send Gendry away?”

Sansa looks disappointed by the question and just shrugs. “I can ask him, certainly, but I think you know it won’t make any difference.”

“Why? You’re the Queen, Sansa. There must be something you can do.”

“Like what?” Sansa snaps. “What kind of power do you think I have exactly? The best I can do is gently _suggest_ he let Gendry stay, but if he really wants the boy gone then there’s nothing I can do to stop it, Arya.”

“And what if—what if he wants _me_? Would you just let him do that, too? Would you let him run off with me like he did with that kitchen girl this morning?” she shouts back, feeling her temper boiling up and slipping away from her.

“He wouldn’t do that with Father around.”

“How do you know that? How do you know that, Sansa? No one can control that man when he’s in his cups, and—”

“Is everything all right in here, Your Grace?” The creak of the chamber doors and Ser Jaime’s voice cuts off her rant. He hovers awkwardly in the doorway, his eyes flitting between her and Sansa. “There was a lot of shouting, and—”

“Everything is quite all right, Jaime, thank you,” Sansa says. There had been a smile on Sansa’s face when she first regarded the Kingslayer, but it falters when she seems to realize what Arya instantly realized—the Queen has just called a member of the Kingsguard by his first name, a familiarity reserved only for a true lady’s husband and brothers. The mistake leaves Arya speechless for a moment. Never in her life has she heard her sister slip up on her courtesies. Jaime looks equally caught off guard but simply nods and closes the door. She wonders if Sansa has developed some kind of fancy for the golden knight. It wouldn’t surprise her; Sansa has always seemed to live in a fantasy world, and Jaime Lannister is just the kind of man who would always rescue her from the imaginary tower or the evil wildings or whatever danger Sansa had conjured up in her head.

When they are left alone again, Sansa blinks a couple of times and continues, “I don’t have a choice in what he does, Arya. If I did, don’t you think things would be different?”

“You let him get away with _everything_ , Sansa. You let him humiliate you in front of the entire court. When he drunkenly insults you or cavorts with whores and kitchen girls out in the open, you just smile like nothing’s happening. Are you really that weak?”

“Why fight when I know fighting won’t get me anywhere?” Sansa asks. “Why let them see it bothers me if I don’t have to?”

“You don’t hear the whispers—”

“Of course I do, Arya! There’s not a single word uttered in this castle that doesn’t get back to me eventually. I know _exactly_ what they’re all saying about me, the good and the bad and the horrible. Do you think me a complete fool?”

“No, I think you’re weak,” Arya answers. The devastated look on her sister’s face almost makes her regret the blunt choice of words, but there is no point in holding back the truth anymore. “And if you let the King send Gendry away, then I’ll run away. And I won’t marry Edric Dayne or any other stupid lord or knight you and Father want me to marry, because I don’t want to end up like _you_.”

There are tears in her sister’s eyes, but she does an impressive job of not letting them fall. “I think I would like for you leave now, Arya,” Sansa says, her voice hardly more than a whisper. “If you would.”

The possibility of having to watch Sansa cry almost prompts her to flee the chambers as ordered, but she doesn’t want to let Sansa avoid this conversation forever. If Sansa is going to sell her own sister off to Dorne and replace her with Jeyne Poole and Margaery Tyrell then she is going to make her feelings known first. “And I’ll kill the King if he tries to touch me, Sansa. I’ll kill him, and I’ll run away across the Narrow Sea, and you’ll never see me again. And if Edric Dayne tries to treat me like the King treats you, I’ll kill him too.”

Sansa doesn’t seem the least bit perturbed by the threats. “I believe I asked you to leave my chambers, Lady Arya.”

“Are you commanding me to leave, _Your Grace_?”

Sansa mutters something under her breath and buries her head in her hands. She stays silent for a long moment, leaving Arya fidgeting uneasily nearby. Finally, Sansa lifts her head and walks over to her desk. She rips off a piece of parchment and begins to write something on it. Before Arya can ask what she’s doing, she walks back over and presses the scrap of paper into Arya’s palm. “The walls have ears. You must not say a word. Can you promise me that?”

The paper sears into her palm. The look on Sansa’s face, half panic and half grim determination, tells her whatever is written on that paper is significant and maybe even dangerous. “I promise.” With that, Sansa drops her hand and turns back to the fire.

Arya unfolds her palm and looks down to see four short words written in her sister’s perfect, flowing script. They are only four words, but they knock the breath right out of her.

_The King will die._

_All men must die,_ is Arya’s first thought, but Sansa’s fear and secrecy over this suggests it is not Robert dying of natural causes she is counting on. “When?”

“Very soon.” The answer confirms what Arya thought—that her sweet, proper sister is planning to kill the King. “Please don’t tell Father.”

The request makes her think of how she and Jon used to always laugh about not telling Sansa when one of them broken the rules. She’s not sure if she’s ever shared a secret with her sister before. It seems almost fitting that their first secret is one so important and potentially damning as this one.

“How?”

Sansa only shakes her head in response.

“Who knows? Do Jeyne and Margaery—?”

“Of course not,” Sansa hisses. “If I was reluctant to tell _you_ , why in the seven hells would I have told _them_? And that’s quite enough about all that.” She plucks the paper from Arya’s hand and daintily drops it into the fire.

The answer surprises her, and she wonders if she had been silly to assume Sansa would trust Jeyne and Margaery over her. “I would have done it for you, you know. If you asked me to, I would have done it.”

“I know you would have, Arya, but I do not intend on losing my sister to this place. You and Father are all I have here. And I hope you know I would never _sell_ you off to anyone you found objectionable if I could help it. I understand the pain of an unwanted marriage well enough, and I don’t want you to end up like me any more than you do.”

Arya suddenly wishes she could take those words back. _I don’t want to be like you._ It is still the truth; she doesn’t want to wear ornate gowns, she doesn’t want a husband to answer to, and she doesn’t want to smile politely at lords and ladies who she doesn’t care about, but it is clear the words hurt Sansa’s feelings. _I’m sorry_. The apology is on her lips, but she can’t quite bring herself to say it. “You’re not weak,” she says instead. “I was just angry about what happened with Gendry.”

Sansa nods and waves one of her hands. "It's no matter."

As she watches Sansa smooth out the black and gold folds of her skirts, the realization that Robert’s death would make Joffrey the King suddenly hits her, and as cruel as Robert can be, she can’t help but think his son will only be worse. “Sansa, what about—what about what happens afterwards?” she asks, hoping Sansa can tell what she means.

“It won’t be a problem.”

Arya doesn’t see how that could possibly be true. “Sansa—”

“I’m going to need you to trust me, Arya,” Sansa says. “It _won’t_ be a problem.”

The assurance does little to ease her nerves, but maybe it was about time she learned to trust her sister. “If you need anything—”

“I know." Sansa reaches out and grasps one of her hands. “Will you share my bed tonight, Arya? It has been so long, since we left Winterfell I think. I would like to hear more about this Gendry of yours.”

Even as worried as she is about her sister and Joffrey and the mess she fears is about to come, Arya can’t seem to suppress the grin that stretches across her face. “Really? What about Jeyne and Margaery?”

“What about them?”

“Won’t they be upset?”

“They have their own beds,” Sansa says. “I think they can survive a night without me. _You_ are my true sister, after all.”

Arya stares at her for a moment, worried she is imagining this entire exchange. “You’ve changed, Sansa. I didn’t know.”

“As have you. And you would’ve known had you ever asked.”

_I would have known had you ever told me_ , she wants to argue, but it isn’t worth fracturing this fragile peace between them. “Your belly better not take up the entire bed. You’re fucking enormous.”

Sansa giggles. “I’m the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms; I believe my bed is large enough to accommodate me, you, and my _enormous_ belly. You better not still kick in your sleep. You left me with a mess of bruises all over my legs when we were girls.”

“No promises there,” Arya laughs. It surprises her how easy things seem between them all of a sudden, now that Sansa has announced she means to kill her husband. Something like that really ought to bother her more, but if Robert dies and Sansa really does have a plan to keep Joffrey from being the King that means her sister will be free and Gendry won’t be sent away and she will never have to suffer Robert staring at her like _that_ ever again. “And I don’t know what you’re expecting to hear about Gendry. He’s stupid, and we’re just friends.”

A smile comes to Sansa’s face, but it is only a shadow of the ones she wore at Winterfell. This smile is held down by a dark, faraway look in her sister’s eyes, but it is at least better than the nearly vacant look that always seems to be on Sansa’s face these days. Even if it turns out she gets along better with this new Sansa, she still thinks that perhaps Robert’s greatest crime is destroying the innocent, naïve girl she once was, a girl who dreamed and laughed and smiled easily. Maybe Sansa’s plan, whatever it was, would give her the chance to finally have everything she wanted back then, if she still wanted it.

“I think I’m going to lay down for a bit,” Sansa sighs, rubbing her stomach. “I’ll see you tonight, then?”

“I’ll be here.” Sansa will probably keep her up all night talking about things Arya could not care less about like she used to when they were younger. And she will probably ask a thousand questions about Gendry no matter how many times Arya insists he is only a friend. But she still leaves her sister’s chambers with a smile on her face, feeling like some heavy weight has just been removed from her shoulders.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Stark sisters are my favorite characters in the series, but I find their relationship a bit tricky to write. Hope it works here.
> 
> The next chapter will be a Sansa POV, and I'm pretty excited to write it. It should be out quicker than this one. Thank you for reading!


	3. Sansa I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They all want something from her, picking and picking like vultures at a particularly meaty, abandoned carcass. When she first settled on the murderous plan, she told herself none of them would ever be able to touch her again after she became Queen Regent and put her son on the Iron Throne. But she worries now that isn’t true, that they will never leave her alone as long as there’s still something to gain.

The soft pull of the brush through her hair nearly lulls Sansa back to sleep. She and Arya had spent most of the night talking of Winterfell and how they missed the mother and brothers they hadn’t seen since Sansa’s wedding years ago. They had also talked of Gendry Waters— _gods, Sansa, stop looking at me like that, he’s just a stupid friend_ —and of Robb’s new betrothed who neither of them had met yet. As much as Sansa enjoyed the night, it has left her absolutely exhausted. It seems the rounder her belly grows the more sleep she needs, and Margaery’s brush strokes and soft humming are not helping keep her awake.

“You look so tired, Your Grace,” Margaery coos, running a gentle finger over one of the dark bags under Sansa’s eyes. “Have you slept at all? Does Lady Arya kick in her sleep? She seems the type.”

Sansa sighs and shakes her head, though her sister does still kick in her sleep. But it isn’t so much kicking anymore as it is running, like Arya is trying to escape from somewhere even in her dreams. _She’s trying to escape this place_ , she thinks sadly, _she’s trying to escape us all_. “No, I’m just always tired these days.”

“You didn’t look so tired yesterday,” Margaery counters. “It would appear that _I_ am the superior bed companion.” She grins triumphantly, and adds, “I missed you.”

“Oh, Margaery, it was only one night. My sister and I had much to discuss.”

“I don’t have any sisters,” Margaery says, pouting, as she begins to twist Sansa’s hair into a long, neat braid. “Sometimes I imagine _you_ are my sister.”

Sansa offers a weak smile in response. She knows propriety dictates she echo the sentiment, but she can’t bring herself to voice the lie. When Margaery first arrived in King’s Landing, Sansa had thought the older girl everything she always wanted in a sister—charming and beautiful and soon to be a princess. She was overjoyed when Robert made Margaery one of her ladies. Together they danced and sang and giggled about handsome knights. But as Sansa grew older, suddenly Margaery’s sweet words began to ring false, and she realized in a castle overflowing with liars and schemers, the lovely Rose of Highgarden could lie and scheme with the best of them.

_And now so can you._ “That’s lovely,” Sansa says sweetly, hoping to put an end to the conversation. “Will you sing to me?”

Margaery giggles, with a blush on her cheeks Sansa envies because she herself is not half so good at faking such a reaction. “Your voice is far sweeter than mine, Your Grace. And I was hoping we could talk instead.”

“Of what?”

“Of my brother, Your Grace, the eldest one,” Margaery answers. “I have just received the most wonderful letter from Willas! I finally convinced him to come to King’s Landing for my wedding. Long journeys hurt his leg, but how often does one’s only sister get married and become a princess? I’m so pleased you will finally meet him. I just _know_ you two will get on splendidly. He loves gardening and poetry and he has nearly as kind a heart as you. And, oh, he has a remarkable voice. You will no longer think mine so sweet in comparison. He’s terribly shy, but perhaps you could convince him to sing with you and—”

Sansa stops listening. She chews on the inside of her lip to keep from snapping at Margaery for being so jarringly transparent. The King is not in the best health, that much is obvious to anyone who has seen him lately. Every day he grows fatter, grayer, and slower, and his hacking coughs fill the halls of the Red Keep. Maester Pycelle has warned him a hundred times the wine and the women will do him in if he is not careful, but the King never listens. Robert’s state is not lost on the Tyrells and neither is the fact that his young queen might soon be a young widow. _They think Margaery will become Queen and then they will claim Robert’s widow as a Tyrell, as another one of their pieces while they thrust themselves into power._ The thought almost makes her laugh, because no one will force her into another marriage she doesn’t want and Margaery Tyrell will never be a queen.

“I look forward to meeting him,” Sansa says, interrupting Margaery’s speech. It isn’t entirely a lie. Willas Tyrell seems interesting enough, and in the few, brief letters they have exchanged, his words read surprisingly genuine. But Margaery had also seemed genuine at first. _Roses are more opportunistic than wolves_ , she recalls telling Jaime and knows it is the truth. “Will you walk with me through the gardens today? My Father informed me the roses I planted are starting to bloom, and I should like to see them.”

Margaery frowns dramatically, as if something disastrous has just occurred. “I would love to, Your Grace, you know I would, but I unfortunately have plans to meet with my beloved Prince Joffrey. He means to take me rabbit hunting with his new crossbow.”

Sansa impresses herself by managing not to laugh out loud or mock the Prince’s ridiculous crossbow. “Ah, I see. How unfortunate.” The Prince had aimed his crossbow at Sansa in front of the court in a rather terrible idea of a jape once, and Robert had beaten the boy senseless for it. It remains one of the only times Sansa felt anything other than scorn for her husband. “Well, I’m sure the Prince will understand why you are unable to join him. Simply tell him the Queen requires your presence.”

Margaery looks genuinely shocked by the response and even a little annoyed. It is rare for the Queen to deny her ladies such freedoms, particularly Margaery, but, every now and then, Sansa likes to remind her which one of them still holds the power. _The crown is still on my head, where it will stay._

Though Sansa likes to think it’s not all a power play, that she is also sparing Margaery some pain. Even if she suspects most of Margaery’s affection for Prince Joffrey is forged— _how could it not be?_ —it would not be kind of her to let her friend grow too attached to the Prince before she banishes him across the Narrow Sea.

“Of course, Your Grace,” Margaery says through clenched teeth. “It’s not as if the blooms will wait.”

Sansa is tempted to order Margaery out of her chambers for such a remark, but a knock at the door distracts her. Jeyne Poole enters and shoots a quick, contemptuous glance at Margaery before turning to Sansa. “Your Grace, the Master of the Coin has arrived for you. I told him you were tired, but he claims you’re expecting him.”

_Is it mid-morning already_? “Yes, I am,” Sansa confirms. “Thank you, Jeyne. Please make him comfortable and let him know I’ll be out in a moment. Oh, and would you like to join me and Lady Margaery on a walk through the gardens this afternoon?”

Jeyne nods and even smiles a little but glares not so subtly at Margaery again. Sansa knows Jeyne’s jealousy is real, unlike Margaery’s. Everything she has gone through has at least taught her to recognize who her true friends are.

When she finishes getting dressed and her two ladies leave, she walks into her solar to find a friend she trusts even less than Lady Margaery. “Good morning, Lord Baelish.”

Petyr smiles a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “What did I tell you about calling me Lord Baelish, sweetling?”

“Calling you Petyr is hardly proper, my lord. Almost as improper as you calling your queen _sweetling_.”

“Yes, well, I won’t tell anyone if you won’t,” he chuckles, winking at her with mischief shining in his energetic, gray-green eyes. The man is too charming and clever by half, and Sansa hopes he can’t sense how nervous he makes her.

She moves closer and rests a hand on his forearm. She keeps her eyes focused on the window, as she runs her thumb over the exposed skin of his wrist and whispers, “It is good to see you, _Petyr_.” She’s rewarded by a darkening of his eyes and slight catch of his breath she’s sure no one but her would notice.

This is the game they play. He brings her whispers and lessons, and she rewards him with soft, innocent touches, always secretly paying he never thinks to demand more. When he first approached her, offering to teach her the game, she assumed he saw her as the daughter he never had with Catelyn Tully, as someone he wanted to protect. But the way she sometimes catches him staring at her or surreptitiously running his fingers through a loose strand of her hair tells a different story. She had decided against her better judgment to humor him, because she feared then that the Red Keep would eat her alive otherwise. But it is dangerous game she plays, and even to this day she questions her choice to allow him into her life.

“You have something you wish to speak with me about?”

“Oh, yes, just some whispers from across the Narrow Sea. I hope you do not mind me taking up your precious time with such things.”

“Of course not, your stories rarely fail to amuse me, Petyr,” Sansa says, taking a seat across from him.

Petyr smirks, and his eyes linger on Sansa’s lips in a way that makes her blush. “Rumors of a new poison created by the Sorrowful Men have recently reached my ears. It makes the victim appear drunk, extremely drunk, before it finally claims his or her life, and it is nearly impossible to detect.”

Sansa’s heart starts to race. “Why are you telling me about this?”

“A queen can never be too cautious, Your Grace.” It’s then she finally notices one of his hands is gripping something. He unfurls his fist to reveal a small phial filled to the top with a red liquid that looks disconcertingly like blood. “I only wish to warn you of possible threats against you, both here and across the sea.”

It looks like a phial of blood, like the blood that will soon be on her hands. The sight of it makes her feel ill—she is supposed to love her husband, not seek to murder him with the help of Lord Littlefinger and the Kingslayer. _I would have been a good wife_ , she thinks, trying not to cry, _to almost anyone else, I would have been a good wife. This is not my fault._ “I see. Thank you for your concern, Petyr.”

“Drink will inspire a man to do remarkably stupid things, but poison is surer, _quicker_ , isn’t it? And we can never be too cautious, as I said. I don’t want anything to happen to you, Your Grace, and it’s nearly impossible to detect,” Petyr says, rolling the phial between his pointer finger and thumb. It’s obvious what he wants her to do. Cersei’s plan is clever enough, but perhaps it depends too much on Robert’s nature, on his propensity to drink too much and take unnecessary risks—this is better, poison won’t fail.

She wonders if Petyr sees himself married to her after Robert dies, like the Tyrells see her married to Willas. They all want something from her, picking and picking like vultures at a particularly meaty, abandoned carcass. When she first settled on the murderous plan, she told herself none of them would ever be able to touch her again after she became Queen Regent and put her son on the Iron Throne. But she worries now that isn’t true, that they will never leave her alone as long as there’s still something to gain.

She also wonders if she will have to kill Petyr someday; he doesn’t seem the type to rest without getting what he wants. The way she almost casually resigns herself to the idea makes her feel even sicker, and she thanks the old gods and the new her father has not yet realized what a monster his sweet, little girl has become. It would break his heart if he knew.

When she closes her eyes, she sees her father staring down at her, sad and solemn and so unbearably _disappointed_ in her. _You’re better than this, Sansa. This isn’t you. This isn’t my sweet, beautiful daughter_ , she can almost hear him saying. It crosses her mind to slap away Petyr’s hand, to smash the phial and its poisonous contents into the ground under her foot. It would be the right thing to do, after all. But then Arya’s face replaces Father’s, her gray eyes are filled with tears and she looks so scared. And then there is Robert, leering at her even while he mocks her and complains of her icy cunt. The moment she reopens her eyes, she reaches for the phial and tucks it into the bodice of her dress.

Petyr beams at her, and this time the smile does reach his eyes. “It is always such a pleasure to see you, sweetling.”

“Trying to seduce my wife, Littlefinger?” The familiar, booming voice and the smash of the doors against the walls send her flying out of her chair. Robert stumbles into the room with an anxious Ser Jaime at his heels. The King turns to glare at the knight. “She’s my fucking wife, Kingslayer. It’s not your duty to guard her from _me_. Get out.”

Jaime opens his mouth, as if to argue, but ends up only nodding and walking silently away. When the doors close, Robert turns back to her and Lord Baelish and smiles. It’s a cruel smile that makes Sansa’s stomach twist. “Only fools with a death wish try to seduce queens, Littlefinger. Do you know why they call him Littlefinger, wife? Trust me, _his_ cock isn’t worth losing your pretty little head over.”

The smile vanishes from Petyr’s eyes, but he somehow manages to keep it on his lips. “You wound me, Your Grace. I would never seek to steal your wife from you. It would be a tragedy to interfere with your great love.”

Robert snorts. “Great love, my arse. You’re all such fucking liars here. Get out of my wife’s chambers, and keep your littlefinger to yourself before I get it in my mind to cut it off. Maybe you’d like that, eh? Then you and that fucking, fat spider can skulk around my castle bonding over your missing cocks.”

“Two eunuchs on the Small Council,” Petyr muses, as he edges his way toward the doors, “That _would_ be quite amusing, Your Grace.” To her surprise, when Petyr reaches the doorway, he doesn’t immediately take off running. Instead, he pauses and glances between her and the King. For a moment, he almost looks genuinely worried about her, though she suspects he only fears Robert will kill her before he can sink his own teeth into her.

“Thank you for your wise council, Lord Baelish,” Sansa calls to him, pleased at the smoothness of her voice. “But I must now speak with my love, the King.”

Robert snorts again and mutters, “Fucking liars.”

Only when he is standing behind Robert’s back does Petyr’s smile finally fade. The defiant stare he offers the back of the King’s head is positively murderous. “Of course, Your Grace.” He bows low and leaves them, his feet hardly making a sound.

Robert turns and slams the doors behind the Master of the Coin. “What was the fucking meaning of _that_? Of all the men to make a fool of me with—”

“I have no intention of making a fool of you, Your Grace,” she interrupts gently. “Lord Baelish was only sharing with me some whispers from across the Narrow Sea. It has been weeks since I’ve been well enough to attend Small Council and—”

“The Small Council is no place for a woman anyways. How many times have I told you that? And you’ll not be entertaining any more men in this room other than your father from now on. Understand that, girl?”

Sansa’s fists clench at her sides. She despises when Robert calls her girl, like she is a child. _You didn’t see me as a child when you pushed your cock into me on our wedding night while I shook and cried and begged you to be gentler. You didn’t see me as a child when you flipped me over, pushed my face into the pillow, and grunted another woman’s name in my ear._ “I am your wife and the Queen, Your Grace. It would not do well for our people to hear you calling me _girl_.”

He merely rolls his eyes. “I’ll call you what I want, _girl_.”

“What can I do for you, Your Grace?”

“You can stop being such a bitch to your sister for one,” Robert answers, as he sinks into the chair behind her desk and reaches for the flagon of wine her maids leave filled for her.

The answer startles her. “What do you mean?”

“The girl thinks she’s ugly, and I know who put that ridiculous notion in her head, you and those two insipid, little hens that follow you around everywhere.”

There is hatred burning in her husband’s eyes, a hatred so fierce it makes her tremble. Even if her own hatred matches his, it bothers her that someone who feels such a way about her exists. She considers whether or not she deserves his loathing, if she has been that terrible of a wife to him. _What do you want from me?_ She almost asks the question that has plagued her since she first realized how much Robert resents her. _I never complain. I watch you fuck whores and kitchen girls and my own maids without a word of protest. I force myself not to cry or scream when you fuck me too hard. I do everything that is expected of me._

Maybe that is the problem. Maybe Robert Baratheon still wants Lyanna Stark—wants wolf’s blood and fire and excitement while all Sansa has ever offered him is duty. Their wedding night had been a complete disaster. The lust in his eyes and the stench of sour wine on his breath had terrified her almost as much as it disgusted her. When he stood proud and naked in front of her, she tried to find something beautiful about him like Septa Mordane said she should. She tried so hard, but she could only see rolls of excess flesh and coarse black hair and a thick, swollen member that she couldn’t believe would actually fit inside of her.

She thinks now he had wanted her to praise him and his ugly, purple manhood, to meet his thrusts with her own, to groan and whine like the whores he loves so much. Maybe he had wanted her to scratch and claw at him like a wolf; she once overheard Bella Rivers telling some of the serving girls men liked that. But Sansa was still shy of four-and-ten at the time, a young, naïve girl trapped under the heavy weight of a man old enough to be her father. She had been scared, so scared she couldn’t think much of anything other than, _I don’t want to be here. I want my mother. I want to go home._ And there had been so much blood and pain, each of his thrusts hurting more than the last. She remembers begging him to go slower, but the more she begged and cried and shook, the angrier he seemed until he finally flipped her over to muffle her sobs in the pillow and pretend she was someone else.

After he was finished with her, she remembers looking at the sickening mixture of her blood and his seed oozing down her inner thighs and on to the sheets. She remembers looking over at her husband snoring loudly next to her, naked and sweaty and unbothered by what had just occurred. He had said nothing to her after whispering the other woman’s name, just rolled off and promptly fell asleep. Septa Mordane never claimed the act would be pleasant, but Sansa still couldn’t help thinking, _This isn’t how it’s supposed to be. It can’t be._

The memory almost breaks her, but the cool push of the phial against her breast brings her back from the edge. She reminds herself it will all be over soon, and a new game will begin, but this time she’ll be a player instead of a prize.

“I spent last night with my sister. I told her what a lovely young woman she has grown into,” Sansa says calmly.

“Like hell you did.” He takes a long swig of the wine. The purple liquid streams down his fat chin, catching in his beard. “You’re all fucking liars here, and you’re becoming one of the best, aren’t you? Your father won’t hear it though. Still thinks you’re the Maiden reborn. You’ve got them all fooled. Just like that Lannister cunt.”

The implication he has tried to poison her father against her banishes any guilt she felt over ending his life rather abruptly. She wonders if Cersei Lannister had a moment like this, a moment of utter clarity and almost comforting resolve to murder Robert and put her son on the Iron Throne. Rickard has his father’s midnight blue eyes and dark hair, but she’s sure he won’t grow up to be like this miserable man in front of her. No, she’ll protect him from the vultures and raise him to be strong and beautiful and good. She’ll raise him to treat his wife and queen with kindness and respect. Rickard’s wife will love him; she knows it.

_You may never love your husband, but you’ll love his children._ She hears Cersei’s words again and can almost see the former Queen staring back at her instead of Robert, with sharp green eyes and thick, golden curls hanging around her perfect face like a lion’s mane. She had thought it cruel advice at the time, because she just _knew_ she and Joffrey would be deliriously happy when they were married, but now she sees it for it what it was—a prophecy, a truth that couldn’t be avoided, a way of life for women like them.

“My sister told me about what happened yesterday, you know.”

Robert frowns and gulps down more of the wine. “The boy was groping her. I was only intervening on your father’s behalf.”

_And_ I’m _the liar?_ “That’s not how she tells it.”

“Ah, and how does the little she-wolf tell it then?” he asks, chuckling lightly. “She’s a fearsome creature, your sister. Not afraid of anything.” There is a wistful look in his eyes when he speaks of her. He almost looks like a man in love.

“Arya said she and Gendry were only sparring and that you threatened to send her closest friend away to Flea Bottom over nothing,” Sansa answers, focusing on her hands instead of Robert’s face. “She’ll run away if you do it. She hates it here enough already, if you take her only friend away, she’ll finally leave like she’s been threatening to do for years. My father certainly won’t thank you for it.”

She hears a grunt and another slurp of wine but doesn’t look up. She wishes she had something to do with her hands to keep herself calm, but Robert is sitting between her and the blanket she’s been sewing. “I’m not going to send the bastard away,” he finally says. “But he’s not allowed to touch her again.”

“You’re not allowed to touch her either.” The words surprise her. She has no idea where they come from and how she could be so stupid as to have actually voiced them. Only a few weeks more and Robert will be gone, and she and Arya will never have to worry about him again. But the thought of Robert taking her sister the way Arya fears he will fills her with rage and disgust, and maybe that is why she speaks so bluntly.

The slam of his fist on the desk causes her to yelp, but she still doesn’t look up. He mutters something but all she can make out is _cunt_. The now nearly empty flagon of wine flies past her head, slamming into the wall behind her. A splash of wine soaks her gray dress. She vaguely wonders if he meant to hit her with it, but before she can ask, the door slams and she looks up to see her husband is gone.

Ser Jaime bursts in only moments later. “Did he hit you? What was that noise?” There’s anger and worry in equal measure shining in his eyes. The sight makes her stomach flutter, and she’s struck by the insane desire to kiss him.

It is truly insane, wanting to kiss the Kingslayer, but on the rare nights she has her bed to herself, it is often the fantasy of doing just that that fills her mind. When she is alone, she likes to think back on the day she saw Ser Jaime shirtless in training yard, all lean, taut muscles and smooth, hairless skin. That night she had sent away Jeyne and Margaery and tentatively dipped her fingers between her thighs, the way Margaery had explained to her once, as she dreamed about running her hands over his chest and through his golden hair. While she moved her fingers, she had imagined his lips against hers, and for the first time it actually felt good.

“I’m fine.”

“I heard a bang.”

“You heard him hitting a desk and throwing a flagon of wine against a wall. There’s no need to worry.”

Jaime’s hand is still gripping the pommel of his sword. He doesn’t seem convinced, like she’s somehow hiding some terrible wound from him. “He used to strike my sister, you know, when he was especially angry and drunk off his ass. Has he—?”

“He has never struck me, no,” she sighs. “My father would kill him.”

“Would he really?”

The question hurts. That anyone could doubt her father would run to her rescue if Robert ever struck her hurts so badly she feels like crying again. Even if her father did consent to this awful marriage, she still likes to believe he would run Robert through if she ever asked him to, if she ever let him know how miserable she truly feels. But maybe she’s never asked it of him and never confessed her unhappiness because she secretly fears he’d do nothing.

“I wish to pray tonight, Ser Jaime.”

“What?”

“Tonight, I wish to pray in the godswood.” _We must never speak of this anywhere else. The walls have ears, sweetling. Only the godswood is safe_. She feels the phial pressing against her skin again. “Will you escort me there?”

Jaime stares at her for a long moment before nodding. “Of course, Your Grace, if that’s what you wish.”

“It is. Thank you, Ser Jaime. But, for now, I’m wanted in the gardens. I hear the roses I planted are finally in bloom.”

 

* * *

 

That night Ser Jaime escorts her to the godswood as promised. She slows her gait a number of times in an attempt to walk beside him, to maybe even subtly to brush her arm against his, but he insists on remaining a step behind her with his hand on his sword the entire time.

“Do you think someone means to attack us?”

“I am sworn to protect you, Your Grace.”

“You’re sworn to protect the King as well,” she points out. She shouldn’t be reminding him of that after what she’s asked him to do, but his dutiful responses and distance even now when they’re finally alone annoys her. That night in his room, when he touched her cheek and brushed his lips across her knuckles—it had been so good to shake away the armor of courtesy she wore every day, even if just for a moment. It had been so good to feel something.

“It’s been a long while since I’ve guarded the King. I suspect you had something to do with that, Your Grace.”

“I told Robert you weren’t fit to guard him, after what you’ve done. I kindly offered to shoulder the burden.”

From the corner of her eye, she sees a smirk playing on his lips. “Yes, how very kind of you,” he drawls. “You’re a clever creature. It clashes with this ridiculous pious façade you insist on maintaining.”

Unlike a great many, maybe even a majority, of her words and actions these days, her piety isn’t a lie. She still believes in the gods, though she suspects they abandoned this place and its people a long time ago, and she can’t really say she blames them.

They make the rest of the trek in silence. When they finally reach the godswood, she is the first to speak. “Lord Baelish once told me this is the safest place to talk in the entire Red Keep. This is where he told me of your sister’s plan.”

“Ah, we must have something rather scandalous to talk about then. Somehow I knew we weren’t coming here to pray.” She looks back and is surprised to find an anxious expression on his face. “Has the plan changed?”

“In a way, yes, it’s been improved.” She reaches into the bodice of her dress. His eyes widen at the action and widen even further when she produces the phial of poison and holds it out to him. “It’s poison, from across the Narrow Sea. Baelish procured it for me. He claims it mimics drunkenness and kills without fail if enough is consumed, and knowing Robert, if it’s in his wine, he’ll consume plenty. Even if he takes no drunkenly foolish risks on the hunt, he’ll still die, and they’ll all think it was the drink that took him.”

Jaime reaches out his hand toward hers but then abruptly pulls back. There’s a long moment of silence, in which he only stares at the phial in her palm, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. “I don’t like it. I don’t like it all. I’d rather challenge him to a duel. I’d rather see my sword slice through his fat belly. I’d rather have him looking in my eyes when I kill him rather than hiding like—”

“Then you’re a bloody fool,” she interrupts. _What is wrong with him? We had an agreement!_ “I’m offering a chance for you and your children to escape, to live new and better lives far away from here, and you’d throw that away for bloodlust?”

Jaime’s jaw tightens, and she wishes she could read him better, could tell what was going on his head. “It’s not… _honorable_ to slip poison into a man’s drink. It’s cowardly. My father always said it was a woman’s weapon,” he sneers, beginning to pace in front of her like he had the night she snuck into his room and first revealed her plan.

“Is the Kingslayer lecturing me on honor?” She laughs at him, but there is no mirth in it. “A woman’s weapon… you say woman like it’s a curse.” _Tears aren’t a woman’s only weapons, little dove._ “We have so few weapons, to fight off your swords and your cocks, but they can be powerful, often more powerful than a sword, and there is no shame in using the weapons one is given. It’s a weapon your father would not hesitate to use if need be, because your father is not a fool,” Sansa hisses in response.

“A fool, huh? You think I’m a fool?” he asks, his eyes locking on hers. Even in the darkness, they shine, striking through the night and making her heart pound against her chest. He looks furious and annoyed, but there’s another emotion there as well, one that makes her cheeks hot. “You sound just like my bloody sister. Going on about killing kings and a woman’s weapons and calling me a fool.”

“If you insist on acting like a fool then that’s what I’m going to call you,” Sansa snaps. It occurs to her that she ought to be more patient with the man who has agreed to help kill her husband, that she should take his hands and soothe away his doubts, but she’s furious he’s talking about ruining it all now when she is finally so close to being free. “You men are all fools. And if you want to be a fool like the rest of them and challenge the King of bloody Westeros to some ridiculous duel and get yourself killed then you better leave me out—”

The rest of her rant is cut off when his lips smash against hers. It is not a gentle kiss. It is rough and fast and desperate, nothing like the sweet, almost chaste kisses she had imagined in her dreams of him. But when he pushes her back against the tree, his fingers finding a bruising grip on her hips, she thinks that somehow this kiss is better than those ones. This kiss is real and hungry, and she feels more alive in this moment than she has in years.

“Jaime,” she whispers, when he pulls his lips away. _We need to stop, this is a terrible idea_ , she means to say, but he’s running a hand through her hair and pressing wet kisses to her neck and she can’t bring herself to say the words. In fact, it seems the only word she remembers at all is, “Jaime, Jaime, _Jaime_ …”

Jaime doesn’t say her name in response, just keeps kissing and kissing and touching, touching her _everywhere_. And when she feels like she’s about to burst from it all, he pulls his lips away again and kneels in front of her, running his hands under her skirts toward a place only her husband has ever touched. Whenever Robert touches her like this or looks at her with the same darkened eyes, she always feels small and afraid. Being with Jaime is different though—it’s empowering and maddening and wonderful all at the same time, and she never wants it to stop.

“This is what it’s supposed to feel like, isn’t it?” She doesn’t realize she has actually said the words out loud until Jaime stops and looks up at her. And, gods, his face looks beautiful, half illuminated in the moonlight. The lust in his eyes fades just slightly into sadness and his grasp on the soft flesh of her thighs eases.

“Yes,” he answers, so quietly she almost doesn’t hear him. “I’ll show you exactly how it’s supposed to feel like, if you’d like me to.”

_No,_ the sane part of her screams, _No, you need to take the poison, and we need to leave this place before anyone misses us._ But Sansa bites her tongue, because she wants to _know_. She wants to feel what always seems to elude her when she presses her own fingers there. She wants, for once, to have her fantasies become reality. “ _Please_ , Jaime.”

It’s little more than a gasp of breath, but it’s enough to spur him back into action. Soon her smallclothes are being pulled down her legs and tossed unceremoniously against the foot of the tree like some obscene offering. The first, cautious touch of his fingers over her nearly makes her cry out, and she has to bite down on her lip to stay quiet. Robert has done this to her before, thrust his fingers inside her, while grumbling about her being _dry as Dorne._ But she’s not dry down there as Jaime moves his fingers and presses his thumb against that spot Sansa first found while dreaming of the golden knight.

It all feels good, so good, but it still doesn’t seem to be enough. She feels like she’s running up a hill, running and running and running, desperate to see what’s at the top, but she can never quite get there. The frustration of it all distracts her enough that she doesn’t even realize Jaime’s head has disappeared beneath her dress.

“What are you doing?” she gasps, when he licks a line from the inside of her knee up to the juncture between her thighs. His voice is muffled under her thick skirts, but she thinks she hears him answer with, “ _Praying_.”

The first swipe of his tongue over her is unlike anything she’s ever felt before and elicits a deep moan she can’t believe has just come from her mouth. Aside from her wedding night, Sansa has never made a sound in bed, just laid back and recited prayers in her head until it was over. She half expects Jaime to cease his attentions when he hears the noise, but his fingers only grow more insistent and his tongue draws excruciatingly wonderful circles around _that_ spot. With every circle and thrust he makes, the muscles in her legs tighten and her head rolls back against the tree, mouth open and panting for air. And, suddenly, before she quite knows what’s happening, she feels like time has stopped, like she’s falling or perhaps flying, like every muscle in her body is singing, and she knows she’s finally reached the top of the that damned hill.

When he emerges from under her dress, his lips and chin are shiny. She wonders what it would be like to kiss him then, to taste _herself_ on him. It is terribly wanton thought, and she suspects Septa Mordane, gods rest her soul, is somewhere rolling over in her grave at this very moment.

“Are you all right?”

_I’m perfect_ , she wants to say _._ “We—we shouldn’t have done that. But—but thank you.”

“Just paying homage to my queen,” he whispers, getting back to his feet. She almost opens her arms to him, hoping he’ll hold her and kiss her again and whisper sweet endearments in her ear. But she keeps her arms hanging by her sides, and he does none of those things. “That’s what it’s supposed to feel like. Don’t ever accept anything less again.”

When he begins to back away from her, she panics. “Stay _,_ please.” The words come out in a whine that embarrasses her. _Queens don’t beg._ “I—we—you must—” There is a bulge in his breeches that hadn’t been there previously, and she wants him to find the same release he has just given her. _I wonder what he would feel like inside me._ The idea makes her blush, but she’s gone this far already, and if he asks for more, she knows she won’t deny him.

He reaches out and tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “I’m fine, Your Grace,” he says. There’s a faraway look in his eyes that hadn’t been there before either. “We should be getting back.”

She knows guilt, and when the moonlight catches his face again, she knows that’s exactly what he’s feeling. She also knows it’s not her husband he thinks he has just betrayed. “She would want you to be happy. If she loved you, that’s what she’d want.”

He sighs and backs further away from her. For what feels like hours, neither of them says a word. “She’s the only woman I’ve ever been with,” he suddenly confesses. “And you’re wrong. She wouldn’t want me to be happy, not with someone else. I belonged to her, and she belonged to me. We were supposed to leave this world together, as we came into it, but I ruined it, or she ruined it… and, and here I am, without her.”

Sansa can almost see Cersei’s ghost standing between them, smiling that white, mocking smile she remembers so well. “That’s not love,” Sansa declares, tears burning in the corners of her eyes. “Love is not selfish. Love is being willing to give up everything to make that person happy.”

Jaime scowls. “And what do _you_ know of love? Life isn’t a song, Your Grace. And love is never that simple.”

_Love is poison, little dove._ She wants to scream. She wants to hit Jaime for ruining it all. She wants to bash the back of her head against the tree hard enough to knock out Littlefinger’s and Queen Cersei’s unwanted, cruel lessons, growing and expanding in her mind like a disease. But she doesn’t do any of those things; she only nods meekly while another one of her stupid dreams shatters in front of her. “No, life isn’t a song. It’s a jape, and not a very funny one.”

The scowl disappears, and he looks at her with a pair of sad, green eyes. And he’s so painfully beautiful, standing there like some knight out of a song. She wonders if the gods are mocking her for still daring her to dream even now, after all that’s happened, after all they’ve made her endure. “Sansa—”

“You were right, we really should be getting back,” she says, as she slips her smallclothes back on with as much dignity as she can manage. She straightens her skirts and fixes her hair and stiffens her back until she’s standing tall and proud once more. “Now, will you take the poison or not?” She holds the phial out to him again.

He opens and closes his mouth a few times but ends up saying nothing, only nodding and slipping the phial into the pocket of his breeches. He gives her a small bow and then motions forward, “After you, Your Grace.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry it took so long for me to post this. I was given a rather unexpected promotion at work, and it's been a big adjustment--but I don't anticipate going this long between updates again.
> 
> Next up is Ned's POV. Thank you for reading!


	4. Eddard I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya does look like her late Aunt Lyanna. With every passing day, she seems to resemble her more and more, but he wishes Robert could see the pieces of Lyanna that are inside of Sansa as well, wishes he could see the way his oldest daughter loses herself in tragic songs and epic tales just like his sister had during her short life. But Robert had never known Lyanna Stark well enough for that; he had only seen the wolf’s blood and dark, gray eyes, not the emotional, romantic girl hidden inside of her.

Ned Stark’s entire body is tense with rage, and it is difficult to hear much of anything over the rush of blood in his ears. He wants to rise from his seat and smack Robert Baratheon off his horse with the blunt of his sword for what he has just done. But he remains seated and stoic, as Robert rides off to have his wounds tended. He is impressed, and rather shocked, that Arya manages to do the same.

His daughter stays seated next to him, dangerously still but for her hands. She takes her palpable fury out on the winter rose the King has just tucked behind her ear while declaring her his Queen of Love and Beauty. The tiny hands have effectively shredded the flower, and he watches as the torn, crumpled petals land in the dirt beneath them. Each fallen petal is like a punch to the gut. With the help of Maester Pycelle, he had the bright blue winter rose specially cultivated for Sansa the moment Robert announced he would be competing in the melee. He was sure the others would let Robert win, and he was sure the King would name his wife after his victory. He had hoped the winter bloom would remind both Sansa and her subjects that no matter how long she lived in the South, she would always be of the North.

“I can’t believe he did that,” Arya mutters over and over again, “I can’t believe he just did that to Sansa.”

 _Neither can I._ He wishes Arya’s outrage over what the King has done to Sansa came as less of a surprise. In spite of their vicious fights, he shouldn’t have let himself forget the ultimate truth of matters—his two daughters, both so strong in their own ways, may have been at each other’s throats for years, but they are still members of the same pack, and Starks are loyal creatures. “It’ll be fine, Arya. I’ll talk with him. Maybe he thought—”

“It _won’t_ be fine. They’ll never shut up about it,” Arya hisses, her voice only loud enough for him to hear. “The stupid singers will write stupid songs about the day the King passed over his Queen for her younger sister. They’ll all sing of passion and secret love and make it seem like we were having some sort of disgusting affair. And then they’ll all remember Sansa for _that_ instead of the good she’s done. He shouldn’t have even won! It was obvious no one else was trying. That fat fucking bastard doesn’t—”

“ _Arya_ ,” Ned snaps, quickly glancing around to make sure no one else has heard her. “Watch your words. We do not speak that way about the _King_.” When the only response she offers is a glare, he decides not to push the issue further. Even if he doesn’t approve of his daughter’s language, he knows she has the right of it. The tournament’s melee had been a pathetic affair, with the greatest knights in the land falling over themselves to let their wheezing king knock them off their horses. The way he won didn’t seem to dampen Robert’s spirits though. He still puffed his chest out proudly when he was declared the winner and dubbed his competitors a bunch of little girls trying to swing swords. Ned isn’t sure if his King and closest friend hadn’t noticed, or if he simply didn’t care.

Robert had looked equally proud of himself when he was handed the winter rose to name a Lady of Love and Beauty. Only the man who prevailed in the jousts could name the Queen, but that didn’t stop Robert from declaring Arya just that when he tucked the rose into her dark hair. The crowd had gasped, and Arya had openly scowled at him, but Robert just kept on smiling and puffing out his chest and bellowing that Arya was the most beautiful lady in attendance.

Now, long after the melee and nearly halfway through the jousts, everyone is still whispering excitedly about what happened. They keep glancing up at Sansa, as if expecting to find their Queen weeping or red with rage. Instead, they only find her smiling as brightly as always, politely clapping and cheering on the competing knights and occasionally fixing Prince Tommen’s messy hair. He ought to be as proud of her as he is of Arya for keeping her calm, but the smile painted on her face makes his stomach sink like a stone. It reminds him of the way Cersei Lannister used to smile after Robert whispered to Ned what a cunt she was loud enough for their entire party to hear.

Ned spends the rest of the tournament going over exactly what he will say to Robert when he confronts him. A thousand curses and insults and threats cross his mind, but he knows if he went to voice any of them, they would all die on his lips. The King may have just embarrassed and dishonored his sweet daughter, but he is still the King, and Ned has to honor that.

New, even louder gasps from the crowd tear him out of his thoughts. “I think he’s moving toward Sansa,” Arya whispers, sitting taller in her seat to see over Ned’s shoulder. “Do you think—?”

Ned doesn’t hear the rest of her question. He’s too busy peering through the energized crowd toward the royal box to see the Kingslayer, who has apparently just triumphed in the jousts, approaching Queen Sansa on his white horse. It’s a lovely sight, something that really ought to be embroidered on a tapestry, when the green-eyed knight in his gleaming, golden armor leans forward and gently places the crown of red roses on the Queen’s head.

“To the Queen of Love and Beauty!” the Kingslayer shouts for the entire court to hear, as Sansa’s magnificent copper hair blows around them in the cool, afternoon wind. “To the most beautiful woman in these Seven Kingdoms and beyond!”

The crowd rises to its feet and cheers at that, applauding their young Queen and her golden knight. The adoring looks on their faces tell Ned that Arya was wrong when she said the bards would sing of the King and the Queen’s sister. _No, they won’t write songs about the fat King Robert and his wolfish paramour_. _They’ll write songs about their beautiful Queen and the King-slaying, golden-haired knight who loved her._ The thought repulses him, and he finds himself rising from his seat, unable to watch any longer.

He storms away from the tournament and is thankful everyone, even Arya, is too enamored with the sight of his daughter and the Kingslayer to pay the Hand of the King much attention. With their cheers at his back, he pushes himself past a red-faced Ser Boros into the King’s tent. “Lord Hand, I wouldn’t—” Blount begins, but Ned is already inside and being greeted with a truly nauseating scene before the Kingsguard can finish the warning.

Robert is nearly naked, leaning back in a chair lined with red, velvet pillows, with his fingers threaded in a young girl’s dark hair. Ned can’t see the girl’s face, only the back of her head, bobbing up and down between the King’s legs. Every moment Ned stands there, helplessly watching on as Robert whispers truly vulgar things and thrusts up into the poor girl’s face, he grows more and more enraged with his oldest friend. He wants to scream at him, to stop what’s happening, but he finds himself frozen in place, unable to do anything at all.

Almost an entire minute goes by until Robert notices him standing there. The King doesn’t look embarrassed to have been discovered in such a position by his Hand and wife’s father; no, he only laughs, as if he has just told Ned some great jape. “My dear old Ned!” he exclaims, thrusting into the girl’s face twice more before letting out a long, shameless groan that makes Ned’s cheeks burn. “Come to join in on the fun, Ned? Fighting always makes a man’s blood sing, doesn’t it? And all you want is a woman between your legs.”

“What are you _doing_ , Robert?” Ned manages to choke out through clenched teeth. “What in the name of the gods do you think you’re doing?”

Robert runs his fingers almost lovingly through the girl’s hair. “Have we ever shared a woman, Ned? I remember trying a thousand times at the Eyrie and during the war, but you always turned me away muttering about honor and other nonsense.” Robert looks away from him and back at the girl still kneeling in front of him. With two fingers, he tips her head up to look at him. “The Lord Hand is the closest friend I have, like my brother. Will you make him feel good, love?”

The girl nods, and when she turns around, Ned’s jaw falls open with horror. He is struck by just how much this dark-haired, fair-skinned girl, barely more than a _child_ , resembles his youngest daughter and the sister he lost during the war. When she moves toward him, a forced, coquettish smile on her freckled face, he nearly falls over in an awkward, desperate effort to avoid her touch. “Get dressed, girl,” he snaps too harshly, for none of this is her fault. “Get dressed and go home, now.”

“Ah, Ned, you and your blasted honor,” Robert chuckles. “You shouldn’t talk to such a lovely girl like that. Don’t you ever tire of turning beautiful women away?”

“You are married to my _daughter_ , Robert. I should kill you for this.”

The girl’s eyes widen at that, and she quickly backs away from him and scrambles to put her tattered dress back on. Robert shrugs off Ned’s threat and focuses on the girl’s body instead, as she struggles to dress herself. “Have Ser Boros escort you home, sweet girl,” Robert tells her. “And if he asks you for a reward for his gallantry, remind him that you belong only to _me_ , all right? Remind him if he touches you, I’ll skin him like the toad he is.”

“Of course, Your Grace. I'll tell him.” She tucks a clinking coin purse into the bodice of her dress and adds, “I hope you call on me again soon, Your Grace.” She grins at him before ducking out of the tent.

“Well, you scared her right off, didn’t you?” Robert complains, while lacing up the front of his breeches. “And I wasn’t nearly done with her yet. What was so important that you had to come barging in here, huh?”

He takes in the sight of Robert then, takes in the exposed abundance of hairy flesh around his torso, takes in the mocking, lopsided smile on his ruddy face, takes in the wineskin that seems permanently sewn into his palm these days, takes in the obscene way his legs are still parted. _How did I let this man marry my daughter?_

That day comes back to him suddenly, like a specter returned to haunt him. Prince Joffrey had been caught killing one of his brother’s new kittens, the little, gray one with a white patch around its right eye. Sansa had doted on the creature nearly as much as Tommen, and she came to him weeping wildly over its death. It was only a kitten, but the act was the final stone that sunk the ship for Ned, and even Sansa finally seemed to be growing less enamored with the Prince. Ned had marched to King Robert’s chambers that night to tell him the betrothal was broken, only for Robert to suggest it first.

“I have decided your daughter shouldn’t marry my son,” Robert had begun. Ned recalls the relief that had swept over him then, only for it to be dashed away mere moments later. “And I’ve thought of a way to put to rest any whispers that your daughter was somehow found unfit to wed the Prince before they even begin. I will claim to have fallen in love with the Lady Sansa and take her as my own wife.”

“ _What_? Robert, I—”

“Wait, wait, before you say no, like I know you’re going to,” Robert had interrupted. “Just think about it first. Your daughter will be the _Queen_ , Ned, and I’ll treat her well, better than I did the Lannister woman. She’s a good girl, your daughter. I’ll protect her from my rotten son, and when I die, she’ll have a fortune and be free to marry whomever she wants. I’ll name any son I have with her the new Lord of the Stormlands over Renly, or even Dragonstone if the girl would prefer it. Don’t you want that for the girl, Ned? Don’t you want her to be a queen, with great lords for sons?”

They had talked for hours that night, with Robert swearing to him a thousand times he would treat Sansa well. “She’s the Northron bride I’ve always wanted,” the King had laughed, “The Stark bride I’ve always wanted. And she’s even prettier than her mother. I need a bride, Ned, and I want _her_.”

The words were nice enough, but there was undercurrent to Robert’s assurances that had made Ned nervous. _I want her. She’ll be my bride. She’ll be my Queen._ It took Ned nearly an hour to realize Robert wasn’t actually _asking_ him if he could marry his daughter, only subtly alerting him to the inevitable. They were no longer Ned and Robert in that moment, friends and brothers, they were the King and his servant, and if the King wanted to marry his daughter badly enough, in the end, Ned was powerless to stop him.

 _I should have run away with her_ , he realizes, _I should have run back North with my daughters and started a war with the crown to protect them if need be._ Instead he had convinced himself that Robert could change, that he could be good to Sansa, at least for Ned’s sake. He convinced himself that the marriage could work, that it wouldn’t shatter the dreams of true love and fair maidens and brave knights Sansa clung to. But it turned out Lyanna had the right of it, being a good husband simply wasn’t in Robert’s nature, no matter how hard he might have hoped otherwise. If Sansa had less of her father in her and more her aunt, she would have run away a long time ago and that makes him feel even guiltier. _I should have kept my promise; I should have found her someone brave and gentle and good._

“You humiliated my daughter in front of the entire court for the second time in a week, Robert,” Ned snaps. “I can’t just sit by and—”

“Oh, would you stop being such a little cunt?” Robert sneers, as he throws his shirt back on. “I didn’t _humiliate_ her,” he argues, “I made everyone realize what a beauty the girl is. Can you believe she thought she was _ugly_? That she wasn’t as beautiful as her simpering sister? It was a winter rose, Ned! It was screaming out for her, for a true Northron beauty—"

“Robert—”

“And the other incident was hardly in front of the entire court,” Robert continues, waving dismissively at Ned. “Only a few members of the Kingsguard and some knights witnessed that, and I was only intervening on your behalf, you know, despite whatever the little she-wolf has told you. What did she tell you, anyways? I couldn’t have the boy groping her out in the open like that, not that I blame him, but—”

“Robert, what are you talking about?” Ned interjects, growing increasingly frustrated and confused with every word. “I was speaking of _Sansa_ , your _wife_ and _Queen_ , not Arya. Do you remember what happened when Rhaegar Targaryen passed over his wife and named my sister his Queen of Love and Beauty?”

Robert’s jaw clenches and his eyes narrow dangerously. For a moment, Ned fears his old friend will actually strike him. “I remember it all well enough,” he spits. “What are you trying to say?” The words slur together, and Ned realizes how drunk the King actually is when he takes another swig of wine and more than half of it streams into his beard.

“I’m trying to say you need to change, Robert. When—when I consented to this marriage, it was because you promised to treat my daughter well. Yet you choose to grope whores in front of her like she isn’t even there and name her _sister_ your Queen of Love and Beauty in front of your subjects. It can’t go on like this, Robert; I won’t allow it to go on like this. The whispers will only grow louder, and you will be remembered for nothing other than these indiscretions. Do you understand that?”

“Do you think I fucking care what they say about me? I never wanted to be their fucking King in the first place, Ned. I was a _warrior_. I was a _fighter_. I killed the Targaryen Prince with a single blow of my hammer. I wasn’t made for counting coppers, Ned. I wasn’t made for your dutiful little daughter; pursing her lips and trying not to cry every time my cock is anywhere near her because that’s what her Septa told her to do. I want more than that, Ned. I want the wolf I was promised, and I want to slay another dragon, over and over and over again I want to slay him. I can’t do this anymore, Ned. I can’t listen to her inane little chirps or look at those meaningless, useless smiles…”

His voice trails off for a moment, his head swaying down toward his chest. Ned isn’t sure if he is trying to hide that he’s crying or has just drifted off into a drunken sleep. “How could you do this to me, Ned?” he asks, his voice more vulnerable than Ned has ever heard it. “How could you not tell me what that girl would grow in to? You must have known. You must have seen the resemblance. You _must have known_ she would grow up to be Lyanna’s shade. If I had only—if I had only waited a few more years then… How could you let this happen, Ned? This is _your_ fault. Why didn’t you tell me? Are you punishing me? Did you want the bloody throne for yourself?”

“Robert, stop it,” Ned says, trying to ignore the twisting of his gut and the little voice in the back of his head screaming, _your fault, your fault, your fault_. As he observes the broken man in front of him, he wonders if he should have claimed the throne that day. Unlike Robert, Ned has never missed the war, has never missed the bloody, noisy battles or the dead bodies strewn across the ground. He rejoiced in the peace he had helped bring back to Westeros and wants nothing more than to see it continue. Unlike Robert, Ned has forgotten about the dark-haired girl he loved in his youth, has let her ghost fade away and fallen in love with his wife. Catelyn would have been a good queen, a _great_ queen.

He had arrived at the throne before Robert. He could have taken it for his own if he truly wanted; he’s not even sure Robert would have fought him for it. Only the young Kingslayer had stood in his way, with blood-soaked hands and a crooked smile. Hatred flares in his chest at the memory, at the way the arrogant, young knight had taunted him and laughed over the body of the King he swore to protect with his life.

“What happened with Arya? Who exactly was groping her?” he asks, wanting to think of anything else but that day. _And why didn’t she come to me about it?_

“My bastard son, the big, silent one,” Robert laughs bitterly. “Like father, like son, eh? It was like seeing a ghost, Ned. It was like a dream, like seeing me and Lyanna all those years ago.” He takes a deep, shaky breath and brushes his hair back from his face. “I only told him to stop. He would’ve taken her before long, you mark my words… he would’ve taken her. Who could resist?”

The question makes him nervous. All of the longing, lust-filled glances he has tried to ignore up until this moment return to him, and he knows he has to speak up and do right by at least one of his daughters. “If you ever lay a hand on her, Robert, so help me I’ll—”

“You’ll _what_?” Robert challenges, rising unsteadily to his full height, nearly half a head taller than Ned. “You’ll do what, Ned? Defy your _King_? Like hell you will. I’m the King of the Seven fucking Kingdoms, whether you like it or not. You _kneel_ to me. You do as I wish, not the other way around. Even if the crown traps me in this hell, it still means I can do whatever I want with the people trapped here with me.”

 _It’s no more than a drunken threat,_ Ned tells himself, backing subtly away from him, _he’ll regret saying it by the morning_. He feels foolish for still trying to assure himself, even now, that there is still some of the Robert he remembers left in this man, but the alternative is too painful to even consider. “Don’t say that, Robert,” Ned sighs. “You don’t mean it.”

Robert only waves him off again and sinks back into his chair, reaching for a new skin of wine. “You should’ve told me, Ned. You should’ve told me about the girl.”

Arya does look like her late Aunt Lyanna. With every passing day, she seems to resemble her more and more, but he wishes Robert could see the pieces of Lyanna that are inside of Sansa as well, wishes he could see the way his oldest daughter loses herself in tragic songs and epic tales just like his sister had during her short life. But Robert had never known Lyanna Stark well enough for that; he had only seen the wolf’s blood and dark, gray eyes, not the emotional, romantic girl hidden inside of her.

“You were supposed to protect her, Robert,” Ned says, his voice strained and barely more than a whisper. “You promised to protect her, but all you do is hurt her.”

“She isn’t what I wanted,” is all Robert offers in response, as his body sags against the chair. “She isn’t what I wanted,” he repeats once more, before his loud snores fill the air. There are still tears clinging to Robert’s cheeks and eyelashes, and Ned begins to feel sorrow mixing in with his wrath.

 _I should have seen this coming. I should have stopped this from happening._ How could he have let the people he loves down so drastically? It won’t be long until Arya runs away from this place. It won’t be long until Robert drinks himself to death. And it won’t be long until Sansa becomes just like the Queen who wore the crown before her, a bitter, mistreated woman with only empty smiles to offer.

It is those thoughts that plague him mercilessly, as he walks out of the tent away from his snoring King. “Bring him back to his chambers,” he orders Ser Meryn at the door. “And make sure no one sees you doing so, understand?”

“Of course, Lord Hand.”

The response is deferential enough, but Ned can see the smirk the man is trying to keep restrained. _King Robert is a jape to them all._

The journey back to the Tower of the Hand from the tournament grounds feels much longer than usual. Each step further into the Red Keep requires more and more effort, because all Ned wants to do is turn the other way, grab his daughters, and run back home, to his sons and his wife and the North.

“Father!” The voice is high and sweet and familiar, easing him out of his dark thoughts. “Are you quite well? You look upset. And you didn’t even notice us.”

Ned turns to find Sansa standing tall, even taller than her mother these days, amongst the newly bloomed roses in the courtyard outside the tower. Amongst the flowers, she looks like a rose herself, all pale, lily-white skin and hair shining like copper in the sun.

His grandson Rickard is balanced on her hip and the crown of red roses the Kingslayer gifted her with still sits on her head in place of her silver crown. The delicate flowers suit her better than the gaudy jewels of the coronet Robert had crafted for her after their wedding. The roses mirror the soft red of her cheeks and for the first time in months she wears a genuine smile. It reminds him how breathtakingly beautiful his daughter is when she’s happy. It reminds him of the young, romantic girl she used to be, and even as his heart overflows with pride, it also breaks for her and all her life could have been.

 _It’s not too late_ , he tries to tell himself. _She’s still so young. You can still fix this._ “I’m sorry, Your Grace, I—”

“Your Grace?” Sansa laughs. “I’m your daughter.”

“And my Queen,” he says, taking a strand of her hair, Catelyn’s hair, between his thumb and forefinger. “You are a true Queen of Love and Beauty, my dear.”

“Isn’t she?” Princess Myrcella sighs from the nearby bench, as she bounces a babe that could be Rickard’s twin on her lap. Though the Princess is the image of her late mother, she has a sweetness Ned is sure both she and her brother Tommen could not have inherited from either of their parents. “She was the most beautiful woman at the tournament. My father was such a fool to not—”

“Do not speak ill of your father,” Sansa chides gently. “Perhaps he knew that your uncle meant to name me when he won the jousts and thought to share some of the lovely roses with my sister. Don’t you think, Father?”

“If you really think that then you’re even dumber than I thought you were,” Prince Joffrey sneers. Sansa’s former betrothed and the Hound appear from the other side of the courtyard. If the boy were anyone but the Crown Prince, Ned might have actually knocked the smirk off his face. “It’s _obvious_ why he gave the rose to your sister. He doesn’t want you anymore. I don’t know why he ever wanted you in the first place, when he could have had a woman like _Margaery_.”

“Joffrey, stop—”

“Shut up, Myrcella,” Joffrey snaps at his sister. “I’m only telling our new _mother_ the truth. He’ll cast you aside before long and replace you with someone who _deserves_ the Baratheon name, not some stupid, silly, chirping little bird. Isn’t that what you call her, Hound? The stupid little bird?”

The Hound glances briefly at Ned and only grunts in response. Even if Clegane has called his daughter such names, he clearly knows better than to admit to it in front of the Hand of the King. “ _Anyone_ who calls the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms a name like that ought to be reminded of his duty,” Ned says, trying to remain as calm as Sansa always does when confronted with Joffrey’s taunts. “What punishment would you deem appropriate, Your Grace?”

The grin on Sansa’s face stretches wider. “A day in the stocks in Flea Bottom, I should think, to see what names the smallfolk could think up for such a person.”

“Your Grace, please,” Myrcella says softly, clutching the black-haired babe tighter to her chest. “Joffrey didn’t mean—”

“You wouldn’t dare,” Joffrey laughs, though some of his earlier confidence has noticeably dissipated. “My father wouldn’t let you.”

One of Sansa’s eyebrows arches. “Really, you think so? I think he would find the idea rather brilliant. I think he’d bring a jug of wine with him and _laugh_ while the smallfolk threw tomatoes at your face.” The smile on Sansa’s faces transforms into something cold and almost vicious, her bared teeth resembling wolf fangs.

Joffrey’s smile also changes, melting away into a grimace. “You rotten—”

“I wouldn’t voice the next word if I were you,” Ned warns. He usually has more patience with Robert’s son, but the events of the day have worn on him. “Perhaps it would be best if Clegane escorted you back to your chambers.”

The Prince opens his mouth, no doubt to argue, but the Hound pushes him carefully forward before he can speak. “Lord Hand,” Clegane says, with a nod. “Your Grace.”

“He doesn’t mean what he says, San—Your Grace,” Myrcella says when Joffrey has disappeared from view muttering something that sounds very much like, _If mother was still alive_ … “He’s only jealous Father married you instead of him. You must know that.”

“Of course I do,” Sansa says, running a hand through Myrcella’s crown of golden curls. “What I said to your brother was only meant as a jape, but perhaps it was a poor one. I apologize if I’ve upset you.”

Sansa’s expression is sweet and her words sound so genuine Ned would have believed her if he was not so certain of her hatred for the Prince. _When did she become so good at that?_ This was hardly the same daughter that had burst into tears and confessed only moments after stealing one of Jeyne Poole’s dolls as a girl.

The Princess blushes pink and shakes her head. “No, of course not, Your Grace. Let’s forget about it and just play. Wouldn’t you like that, Barra?” she chuckles to Robert’s young daughter. She carefully sets the girl down on the ground and smiles up at Sansa.

Sansa sets Rickard down beside Barra, and the two immediately begin giggling over a wooden knight Ned hadn’t noticed in his grandson’s tiny hand. “Of course,” Sansa agrees, “Rickard loves playing with his sister.”

“Sister,” Myrcella sighs. “It’s so strange to say _sister_ , to say I have sisters.” There’s still a smile on her face, but there’s now an anxious knit to her brow. “Do you think it’s odd that—that none of my father’s other children look like us?”

Sansa’s eyes widen slightly at the question. “Odd? No, you all look so very much like your mother, that’s all. It's lucky; she was a truly beautiful woman.”

“Yes, I know—I just—it’s just odd, is all,” Myrcella goes on, shrugging. “Gendry told me his mother was blonde as well.”

The seemingly innocent statement strikes some chord within him, awakening some suspicion he hadn’t even known was there. _Gendry told me his mother was blonde as well._ It makes him recall the thick tome on the Baratheon lineage sitting on his desk, the tome Jon Arryn had been reading when he died, and suddenly he can’t seem to catch his breath. _Black of hair, black of hair, black of hair…_ _The seed is strong…_ The words flash across his mind and ring in his ears and it takes all the self-control he possesses not to sprint away from them at that moment.

“Father? Father, are you well?”

He forces himself to take a deep breath before answering. He’s never been a good liar, but he doesn’t want to worry Sansa with this just yet. “Of course, dear,” he answers. “I was just thinking. I really should—”

“Oh, no, please don’t go,” Sansa interjects, grabbing his forearm. “Stay with me and the babes for a while. Myrcella will have to leave me soon for her harp lessons.”

“Gods, is it already that time?” Myrcella exclaims, leaping up from the bench. “Lady Elyn is going to kill me if I’m late again. Can you watch Barra for me?”

“Of course I can, Cella,” Sansa says, before Myrcella smiles gratefully and runs off, her golden hair— _Lannister hair_ —flowing behind her. “He loves that wooden knight, you know,” Sansa says to him, as she threads her arm around his. “Robb sent it for him with his last letter to me.”

Despite the horrible truth Ned believes he has just realized, he can’t help but smile a little when he sees Rickard handing the wooden figure to Barra. “Jon Arryn carved that for me, when I was just a boy. It was a talent of his.”

“I think Rickard will grow up to be a knight someday,” Sansa says. “A _true_ knight, a great knight, one who protects the weak and keeps his vows.”

Ned hugs her arm closer to him. “I’m sure he will, my love.”

She presses her hand over her round, protruding stomach and sighs. “I hope this child is a boy as well. I pray to gods for it at night. I was thinking Brandon for a name. Isn’t that nice? Brandon Baratheon. Brandon the Brave.”

Ned frowns. “Yes, of course, but daughters are a blessing. Why are you praying for another boy? You need not worry about heirs.”

At that, Sansa shakes her head, almost violently. “No, it is—it is not a kind world for daughters. I just—I just fear I would fail to find her a proper husband.”

“I wouldn’t allow that to happen, Sansa.” It isn’t until the words leave his mouth that he realizes how ridiculous they must sound. How can he promise to protect a granddaughter when he has let his own daughter down so? “Sansa, I swear to you, things are going to change. I spoke to Robert earlier, and—”

The feeling of her hand wrapping around his and squeezing distracts him from the rest of his thought. “Things _will_ change,” she agrees, giving him a weak smile. “I trust you, Father. And you’re right, a girl would be lovely. Maybe I could name her after Mother. I don’t know why I was being so silly.”

 _The girl’s a liar, Ned, and a good one. She can change her face, smile when she’s furious, frown when she’s pleased, act like she adores you when she’d rather cut off your cock, shove it down your throat, and banish you to the Wall._ Though he worries Sansa is only humoring him with harmless lies, he pushes Robert’s cruel words out of his mind. He knows the look in Sansa’s eyes is real, knows that even after all that he’s allowed to happen she still trusts him. He makes a vow at that moment, to himself and the gods, that he will fix this mess he made somehow. “Sansa, has Robert—has Robert ever hurt you?”

She lets go of his hand and sinks to the ground beside the children, her skirts spreading out around her. “Of course not,” she answers, without a moment’s hesitation, though her voice sounds practiced, emotionless. “He’s a very gallant King and husband. He did especially well in the melee today, don’t you think? As his wife, I was proud.”

“I think the other competitors were practically throwing themselves off their horses to ensure his victory.”

Sansa’s lips curl into a tiny, barely detectable smirk that she quickly suppresses. “We mustn’t say such things.”

“You’re a good wife, Sansa. Better than he deserves.”

She pulls Rickard on to her lap and kisses him on the cheek, eliciting a loud giggle from the young boy. “I always wanted to be a wife and mother. It’s all I ever wanted,” she whispers. “I can tell you have something you need to do; I won’t keep you any longer.”

“I can’t leave you here without—”

“Ser Arys sits just behind those rose bushes over there; he’ll escort me back to my chambers,” Sansa explains. Sure enough, when he looks up he notices the Kingsguard sits silently just a few steps behind her, wiping off his sword and casting sidelong glances toward them every few moments. He is the only one aside from the Kingslayer that Sansa seems to tolerate of the King’s sworn guards.

While Ned doesn't want to leave without discussing what happened today, without making her more promises, there is now something he must do. He says goodbye and walks away from her, intent on confirming his suspicions and then tracking down the Kingslayer and, with him, the truth.

When he reaches his solar, he immediately throws open the book Littlefinger had pointed him toward. _Black of hair, black of hair, black of hair_ , he reads over and over again, his chest tightening more each time he reads those words. The book, the bastards, Jon Arryn’s last words, Littlefinger’s veiled hints—Ned had always suspected the Lannister twins were hiding something, and now he knows exactly what it is. His first thought is to alert Robert, to have Joffrey removed from the line of succession as quickly as possible, but as sick as the idea of Cersei and Jaime Lannister’s treason makes him feel, their young children being put to death at Robert’s orders seems far worse.

 _I’ll offer him mercy. I’ll convince him to leave Westeros with his children, and Rickard will be named the new heir without any blood being shed._ It's more than the Kingslayer deserves and perhaps it is a naïve notion, maybe even a stupid one, but he simply cannot condone the deaths of babes.

“What’s going on? You look awful. Did you talk to the King?”

He looks up to find Arya standing in the doorway. “It’s just been a long day.”

Arya nods and rolls her eyes. “And whose fault is that? Someone ought to stick him with the pointy end,” she grumbles, moving toward his desk. “Pycelle gave me this to give to you. It’s a letter from home.”

Ned immediately recognizes Catelyn’s flowing script on the front of folded parchment and feels his stomach flutter. Not a single hour has passed since he left Winterfell that he has not missed his wife, has not longed for her council and her touch. He wishes he could leave King’s Landing and its vile secrets behind for the North, but the day he gave away Sansa’s hand to Robert was the day he also trapped both himself and her here. “Have you read it?”

Arya bites her lip, and he can tell she’s debating whether or not to lie to him. “There’s nothing important in it," she answers defensively. "It’s mostly about Robb’s wedding, that’s all. Robb wants to wait to have it until Sansa is well enough to make the journey with us, but mum isn’t sure it’s _proper_ to make Lord Manderly wait so long to see his daughter married off. I say make Lord-Too-Fat wait. We should _all_ be there, and I know Sansa wants to see Winterfell again. It wouldn’t be fair to leave her behind.”

“Of course we’ll wait for Sansa,” Ned says. “I’m sure Lord Manderly will understand delaying the ceremony for the Queen. And you’re right, it’s about time we were all back home again.” An idea strikes him then, and he adds, “I’ve been thinking it’s—it’s especially about time you left this place and went home, Arya.”

She meets his eyes but her expression is unreadable, and he longs for the days he used to be able to tell exactly what his daughters were thinking. “To Winterfell?”

“Yes, to Winterfell.”

“Not Starfall?”

There’s hope shining in her gray eyes, as she asks the question. She looks so painfully like Lyanna did the day she confided in him that she did not love Robert Baratheon and asked for his help. _It will all be okay, Lya. He will be good to you, he promised. And I promise I’ll look out for you._ He may not have been able to keep that promise, but he will keep this one. “Not Starfall,” he agrees. “You belong in the North. The Umbers live the closest to the Wall, perhaps you could visit Jon and—”

“So you plan on marrying me off to an Umber instead then?” Just like that the hope disappears and is replaced by the defiant stare he’s grown accustomed to.

“Arya—”

“It’s fine,” she mutters, waving her hand. “Do you—do you think the King will be angry with you?”

 _Yes,_ Ned thinks, _he’ll be furious._ Robert has grown used to getting what he wants, and he won’t take kindly to Arya being moved just out of his reach. “He won’t know until it’s too late,” Ned answers. “We’ll all travel home for your brother’s wedding, and when I return to King’s Landing, you will not return with me. I see the way he looks at you, Arya. I’m not the fool you might think I am, and I’ll not allow it to happen. You should have told me what happened with the blacksmith’s apprentice—”

“What about Sansa?” Arya interrupts. “Will she stay in Winterfell too?”

“Arya, she’s the Queen of Westeros, she can’t—”

Arya turns her back on him before he can finish. “You would make her come back to this place.” It’s a statement, not a question.

“I’ll protect her, Arya. I’ll make sure things change. But there’s no way I can steal the Queen from King’s Landing. It would be chaos.”

“Things _will_ change,” Arya says, echoing her sister’s earlier declaration. “Luckily Queen Sansa can protect herself.”

Ned isn’t sure what she means by that, and she leaves the solar before he has a chance to ask. Arya’s response is harmless enough— _Luckily Queen Sansa can protect herself_ —but it leaves him with a pit in his stomach he can’t quite explain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! A second Jaime POV is up next.


	5. Jaime II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The poison is redder than the apples that hang from the trees in the Reach, redder than the roses he placed on Sansa Stark’s head, redder than the wine that flows down Robert Baratheon’s chin, redder than the blood Cersei coughed out along with her last words.
> 
> Redder than the blood that coated his sword after he stabbed the Mad King in the back.

_Red._

He tries to ignore it, tries to gather up the few personal items he cares enough to take with him across the Narrow Sea and think on how he will explain to his children that they are, in fact, his children, but all he can see is red.

The poison is redder than the apples that hang from the trees in the Reach, redder than the roses he placed on Sansa Stark’s head, redder than the wine that flows down Robert Baratheon’s chin, redder than the blood Cersei coughed out along with her last words.

Redder than the blood that coated his sword after he stabbed the Mad King in the back.

Perhaps Sansa was right to call him a fool the other night, but he still wishes he could smash the phial under his fist and dispatch of King Robert in a nobler fashion. Once it had only been fantasies of Cersei that filled his dreams, of her soft skin underneath his hands and the way her golden hair looked fanned out across his pillows. But lately all he imagines is challenging the King of Westeros to a duel in front of the entire kingdom. He imagines Robert wheezing and impotently swinging his war hammer just before Jaime plunges his sword right through his fat belly. Robert always looks up at him before he dies, always opens his mouth to say something, but his last words are drowned out by the cheering of the crowd.

The dream usually ends there, with Robert falling limp on the ground, his red, red blood spilling and pooling across the dirt of the tournament grounds. But last night had been different. Last night a Queen, barely more than girl, with hair the color of red gold, had snuck in as well. She had stepped gracefully over the King’s body, kissed him for all her subjects to see, and declared him her savior, her true knight, her Aemon the Dragonknight reborn.

_You truly are a fool._ He knows Cersei would have agreed with Sansa on that much at least. It amuses him nearly as much as it pains him to consider how his sweet sister would have reacted to all of this, to the girl she called a stupid little dove carrying out what Cersei would have considered her finest accomplishment—killing the King and seizing power for herself, for her son. He thinks Cersei might have been proud of Sansa despite herself, might have even tried to claim some of the credit as the girl’s mentor, but she would have killed her for daring to touch Jaime—her brother, her lover, her other half. Maybe she would have killed him for it too.

When Cersei passed away in his arms, he never considered there would ever be another woman in his life. But there had been a moment in the godswood when Sansa held herself just as Cersei used to, with her eyes narrowed, shoulders back, and chin pointing up toward the heavens. He tells himself that _that’s_ why he kissed her suddenly, that that’s why she has begun invading his dreams. He may never be able to hold Cersei again, but he can hold this girl who is so like her and so different at the same time. Sometimes he isn’t sure what draws him to her more, the differences or similarities.

But whatever it is, he can’t deny he _is_ drawn to her. When he catches the glint of his golden armor out of the corner of his eye, he finds himself picturing how she had looked with the crown of roses draped across her brow. The sun had landed on her hair just right in that moment, illuminating its every color, the mesmerizing streaks of red and gold and copper. He thinks he might have been the only one close enough to see the tears shimmering around the corners of her eyes when he approached, making them look like deeps pools of water, pools any man could easily drown in. He closes his eyes and sees those eyes staring up at him again like he’s some hero out of a story, soft blue instead of sharp green, and runs the palm of his hand over the front of his breeches.

When he pushes his hand inside, he imagines he can taste her again, can taste the sweetness that clung to her lips when he kissed her in the godswood, lemons and honey and something else he couldn’t put a name to, something distinctly her. He only manages one good stroke before a knock comes at the door, loud and insistent. He almost shouts out for whomever it is to go away, but as the time draws nearer for him and Sansa to put their plan into action, he realizes he can’t afford not to be careful.

The knock comes again. “All right, just a moment!” he calls, before grudgingly adjusting his breeches. He forces himself to take deep breaths and think of Maester Pycelle, of his father scolding him, of Tyrion going on about his whores, of _anything_ to temporarily stymie his arousal, so he can properly deal with this unexpected visitor.

The knock is much too loud for his comfort. Whoever it is sounds angry and is clearly not worried about being secretive, but part of him still hopes he finds Sansa on the other side. He wants to pull her inside his chambers and press her long body against his bed to finish what they started. Cersei might not have liked it, but Cersei broke her promise; she abandoned him to this place and moved on without him.

His arousal fades quickly enough when he finally opens the door to find the father instead of the daughter standing on the other side. “Stark,” he all but growls upon seeing the Hand of the King’s solemn face. “What brings you to my humble chambers? Come to thank me for sparing your daughter some humiliation yesterday? Quite the husband you found for her.”

There’s a frown on Lord Stark’s long face that twists into a grimace the moment Jaime speaks. If it weren’t such a common expression on his face whenever the dreaded Kingslayer is nearby, Jaime might have been more worried about what Stark wanted from him. “I would like you to accompany me to the Sept, Ser Jaime.”

_What in the seven hells?_ “The Sept?” he asks, sure he has somehow misheard him. “I thought you Northmen worshipped trees.”

“I don’t wish to pray with you,” he says through clenched teeth. “I wish to speak where no one will hear us.”

That makes Jaime’s stomach twist. There’s a twinge of fear he’s too ashamed of to truly acknowledge. There are few things in this world he fears, and Ned Stark has certainly never been one of them. “I don’t see anyone here, do you? Just say what you need to say, Stark. I’ll even welcome you inside, if you’d like.”

Ned Stark takes a deep breath and closes his eyes for a moment, as if standing in Jaime’s presence is physically painful for him. “The matter is too delicate to speak about here, or anywhere in the Red Keep for that matter. If you would just accompany me—”

“What is this about?” he snaps. There’s that fear again, churning in his gut and screaming from the back of his mind, _he knows, he knows, he knows_. Jaime isn’t sure what he thinks Ned Stark knows, but almost every possibility he can think of could spell disaster. “I don’t want to go to the fucking Sept with you.”

The Hand of the King is an exceedingly patient man. Anyone who serves on Robert’s Small Council must have impressive amounts of patience to last this long, but especially the Hand. He thinks that is how Ned Stark manages to simply nod rather than lash out and drag Jaime forcefully out of his chambers at that moment. “This is not a trap, Ser Jaime. I’m doing you and your family an immense favor by making this request before—” Stark grimaces again and stops himself. “Please just come with me.”

_Before what?_ He feels his eyes widen and quickly strains to regain control of his face. Whatever Stark thinks he has found out, Jaime will have to deny it and deny it convincingly. “Fine,” he relents, “Let’s get on with it then.”

The walk to the Sept is possibly the most awkward one of his life, even including the tense stroll he shared with the handmaiden who escorted him back to his chambers after she and his mother caught him and Cersei in a less than appropriate position. They remain silent apart from Ned Stark’s occasional, sharp intakes of breath and the nervous cracking of Jaime’s knuckles at his sides.

It is a long walk to the Sept, and it gives Jaime plenty of time to agonize over what it is Lord Stark wants to talk with him about. Is it possible Sansa’s resolve to murder Robert wavered? That she broke down and confessed the truth of it all to her father? The possibility is almost unthinkable after the way she looked at him in the godswood, all angry determination and barely concealed panic that he might fail her. But, then again, no matter how furious and bitter Robert makes her, Sansa Stark will never be Cersei Lannister. There is still too much guilt in her eyes when she speaks of her soon-to-be-deceased husband, too much doubt this is the right course of action. There is simply too much of her father in her, and suddenly he thinks that _must_ be what Stark wants to discuss.

_He’ll blame me for all of it. He’ll maintain that I seduced his innocent daughter and convinced her to turn on the King no matter what I say._ He almost laughs out loud at the thought. _She came to my chambers with her murderous little plan_ , he can already hear himself sneering back, _and she practically threw herself at me in the godswood. You should have heard her moans when I knelt between her legs._ Stark wouldn’t believe a word he said, he’s sure of that, but it might be worth it just to see the man squirm.

When they finally reach the Sept, they walk inside to find it nearly deserted. There’s only an aging Septon escorting a woman even older than him toward the room used for confessions. Cersei had made a show of going into that room sometimes, to show her subjects just how pious she was. Jaime was always sure to have her afterwards, to thrust inside her while she japed about how the Septon would react if she ever confessed her true sins.

It surprises him when Ned walks out ahead of him and kneels in front of the Mother. Though he has only ever prayed to the Warrior, he always thought the Mother the most beautiful of the gods. After his own mother passed away, he considered kneeling before Her more than once. The way she held out her arms, palms open and vulnerable and welcoming, always made Jaime think that if the gods actually existed, the Mother would be the one to understand the choices he has made. The Mother would take him in her outstretched arms and forgive him, just as he likes to think his own mother would have had she still been alive.

For a long moment, Jaime remains frozen in place, eyes flitting between the Mother’s face and the back of Ned Stark’s bowed head. He considers leaving Stark there and running away from this conversation he’s more than sure he wants no part of, but there’s something about the sculpture’s open palms that draws him closer and brings him to his knees. “So what is this all about then?”

Ned Stark sighs—the man sighs entirely too often, Jaime decides—and looks down at his folded hands. “I know the truth.”

_So Sansa did tell him._ Jaime nearly blurts out what he had been thinking on the way over, that _she_ was the one who came to him, that if he wants someone to blame for this scheme he should look to his own daughter, but he bites his tongue. He doesn’t know just how much Sansa has revealed to him yet, and until he does, perhaps it is best he say as little as possible. “Ah, the truth, a funny thing. What great truth have you discovered, Lord Stark?”

“I think you know, Ser Jaime.”

_He doesn’t want to say it. He wants me to confess it to him, here in front of the Mother._ But Jaime doesn’t give a damn what Ned Stark wants. He is not about to make things easier for a man who looks at him with such condemnation and revulsion in his eyes. “I think I have no idea what you’re talking about, Stark. And if you’re not going to elaborate on this _truth_ you’ve stumbled upon soon then I’ll be leaving.”

Jaime wishes he could see the expression of Stark’s face, but he stares resolutely at his hands. “Prince Joffrey is no prince at all, is he?” Ned asks so softly that Jaime barely hears him. “He is a bastard born of incest. The product of you and your sister’s sins.”

The response changes his mind, and he finds himself thankful Ned isn’t looking at him, because his shock must be plain on his face. “I don’t know what—”

“Don’t bother denying it. I know it’s the truth,” Ned interjects. “Jon Arryn knew too, didn’t he? That’s why he had to die.” Jaime isn’t sure what to say to that. As far as he knows, Jon Arryn died of a natural sickness, but maybe that was another one of his sister’s plots, one she didn’t feel the need to inform him of. “Not one of them is Robert’s trueborn child—Joffrey, Myrcella, Tommen—they’re all yours, aren’t they?”

Just as when Sansa confronted him with the truth, his first instinct is to feign disgust and deny the accusation. But his years in King’s Landing have left him tired of lying and tired of covering up a truth he was never ashamed of in the first place. “Who told you?”

“I didn’t need to be told.”

_It wasn’t Sansa then._ He suddenly realizes the Queen has no idea this meeting is even taking place, no idea her plan to free herself of Robert is falling apart at this very moment. Again, he has to fight the urge to laugh, to mock this pathetic man with just how long his daughter has known the truth while he walked around in ignorance. Instead he only says, “Ah. Well then, what is it you plan to do about it? Did you bring me here to try to save my soul?” Ned finally glances up at him then, shooting him a look that screams, _Why aren’t you losing it? Why aren’t you begging me for mercy?_ It seems he has forgotten that Lannisters don’t beg. “Well?” he prompts again.

Ned glares dangerously at him, but Jaime doesn’t so much as flinch. “I could have informed Robert of this immediately after I figured it out. If I had, he would have hanged you without a second thought, you _and_ your bastard children. Know it is not for _you_ that I am doing this for. They are only babes, and Sansa loves the younger ones dearly, so dearly I fear it would break her heart to see Robert—to see her husband hurt them in any way.”

“And how would you like to avoid that?

“I want you to flee King’s Landing,” Ned answers. “As quickly as possible. Take the children and flee across the Narrow Sea. Dye your hair black, choose new names, and hide in the darkest corners of Essos, because Robert will not rest until he finds you.”

_Robert will be resting soon enough_ , he thinks, as his lips threaten a smirk. “You’d let me leave King’s Landing alive and unpunished then? The honorable Lord Eddard Stark will allow the sisterfucking Kingslayer to escape retribution for his crimes?”

“I’m offering you _mercy_. Do not mock me, Kingslayer,” he warns. “This is more than anyone else would have done for you.”

_Aside from your daughter, of course._ Sansa had said her father would offer him mercy if he learned the truth. Perhaps he shouldn’t be so surprised she was actually right. “I will need time to get things in order first.”

Ned Stark gives him that look again, silently asking him, _Why aren’t you fighting me on this?_ “You have three days.”

That isn’t the answer Jaime was hoping for. Three fucking days is not enough time for him and Sansa to fix this mess. “I need more—”

“Three days is all I can offer you,” Ned interrupts, shaking his head. “If on the fourth day, you are still in King’s Landing, I will go to the King with all that I know and gods help you and your children then.”

“Your daughter wouldn’t like this,” he spits before he can stop himself. “After what I did for her at the King’s tournament. And her reign does not need any more chaos, more whispers. She has granted me a respite from my duties in two weeks time, allow me—”

“My daughter would be _repulsed_ by you if she really knew you,” Ned growls, almost sounding like the wolf he claims to be for once. “And I will not have you breathing the same air as her, tarnishing her kingdom and her castle, for any longer than necessary. You have three days, Ser Jaime. Whether you choose to remain a stubborn fool or save the lives of your children in that time is entirely up to you.”

Ned Stark rises abruptly from his knees, but Jaime grabs his arm before he can leave. “Aren’t you going to ask me why?” It’s an absurd question, but one he can’t prevent himself from asking. Since he first realized what his love for Cersei was, he has wanted to declare it openly, to shout it to the heavens and let the gods and people who would condemn them be damned. He kept it a secret for _her_ , but it’s no longer a secret, and he finds he desperately wants to explain it, to make him understand.

“No.”

“I loved her, you know. We loved each other. We always did.”

“I said no, _Kingslayer_.”

He says the epithet like it’s a curse, and Jaime wants the man to hurt for it, wants him to know another truth he’s been avoiding for years. “The day she married Robert, I thought I might lose her to him. Cersei wanted to be a Queen since she was a girl, since my father told her she would marry Rhaegar Targaryen someday. It was something I could never give her, but Robert could. If he was a better man, he could have taken her from me then, I think, could have ended our love and had all the little black-haired babes he desired running around the Red Keep. But on their wedding night, he came to her bed drunk out of his mind and whispered a name in her ear that was not her own. I bet you know what that name was, don’t you, Stark?”

Ned Stark’s body tenses, but his eyes soften slightly. “I didn’t—”

“He did the same to your daughter, you know,” Jaime adds, unable to keep the vicious smirk from stretching across his lips. “And before you call me a liar, remember that I was the one standing outside the door that night, guarding the Queen from everyone but the one person she needed guarding from. There was a lot of crying at first. You could even call it weeping, I suppose. Your daughter was scared and begged him to be gentler with her, but Robert Baratheon is not a gentle man; we both know that well enough. I think he tried to ignore the cries for a while, but they _were_ rather jarring.”

“Stop—”

“He must have grown sick of the sound, because eventually they muffled to the point I could barely hear them at all over the sound of the King’s grunts. Do you think he shoved her face into the pillows to get her to shut up? Or maybe he just pressed his hand over those pretty lips of hers? Either way, she quieted, and I could hear every filthy, vile word that came out of our gallant King’s mouth. And then there was that name, clear as glass. The name that started a war and destroyed two marriages before they even began.”

Tears begin to fill Ned Stark’s eyes. The man looks torn between lunging at Jaime and fleeing from him. It ought to make him feel guilty, but it only makes him want to reveal more of what he’s heard from outside the Queen’s chambers, to make it clear just how badly he has failed his daughter. “Why—why—?” He falters and looks down at his own hands again, now swinging limply at his sides.

_Why would you tell me that? Why are you doing this to me when I offered you mercy?_ That’s what Stark wants to ask but can’t. “Every day you allow her to remain married to that man, you fail her. I’ve protected her better than you ever will.”

Stark remains silent for a moment, clenching and unclenching his fists. “Three days,” he finally says. “You have three days.”

With that, the Hand of the King marches away from him without looking back. When the doors close behind him, Jaime turns his attention back to the Mother and her open palms. For a brief moment, he considers praying to her, pleading with her to show him and Sansa mercy, even if what they are doing is wrong. _She deserves a better life than this_ , he thinks, hoping she can hear him. _She’s a good mother. She understands mercy, and she deserves to be free._ But he doesn’t end up praying, not truly. He’s not sure he even remembers how, and besides, the gods can’t help him with this. But maybe Sansa Stark can.

 

* * *

 

It takes him hours to finally find her.

_The Queen went hawking with Lady Margaery_ , Jeyne Poole had informed with a petulant little frown on her face. The answer leaves him furious. Sansa hates riding, which should be obvious enough to anyone who has ever seen her near a horse, but even as a fucking Queen, she still insists on making herself miserable to humor cheeky little brats like Margery Tyrell. Cersei never would have bothered. Cersei would have been here when he needed her.

Jaime waits for her in the courtyard, pacing by the rosebushes she planted, knowing she must pass through on the way to her chambers. He practically lunges at her when she finally comes into sight just as the sun is beginning to set, with a gaggle of young girls and handsome knights trailing behind her.

Her eyebrows furrow when she spots him, but her voice betrays nothing. “Ser Jaime, what a pleasant surprise to find you here.”

“Your Grace, you said you wished to pray tonight and—”

“ _Pray_? You’re the _Queen_. What could you possibly have left to pray for?” Margaery giggles, linking her arm with Sansa’s in a move that looks surprisingly possessive. “And I thought we were going to eat tarts and have the Blue Bard entertain us until we fell asleep. I was looking forward to it.”

A dark, anxious look flickers across Sansa’s features, but she finds her smile again so quickly Jaime thinks he might be the only one who noticed. “We will still do all that _after_ I pray, Lady Margaery. I promise.”

“Will you be praying to the Mother or to one of your father’s trees?” Margaery asks, a smirk tugging at the corners of her lips. “You can longer pray to the Maiden like me, after all.”

Sansa’s eyes narrow slightly. “I have asked Ser Jaime to escort me to the godswood,” she answers coolly. “You might think it a silly habit, but it reminds me of home.”

“But, Your Grace, _this_ is your home now,” Margaery argues. “Please, come with me. We’ll have a magnificent time.”

“ _After_ I pray, Lady Margaery,” she repeats. “Escort the others back, if you would.” With that, she turns her back on Margaery and holds out her arm to him.

They walk with their arms linked, not saying a word, just as silently as he and her father had walked to the Sept. Despite his worries and his anger, it’s a rush to be this close to her again, to feel her hand rest against the exposed skin of his wrist and her hip brushing against his with every step she takes.

“Is all well, Ser Jaime?” she asks, when her party has finally faded from view.

“No, all is not well.”

“I see.”

Neither of them speaks again until they enter the godswood. It is dark by the time they arrive, so dark that he can hardly make out her face. “Have you changed your mind?” she whispers, pressing her palm against the trunk of a tree. “After—after our last discussion on the matter, I was so sure—”

“Your father came to my chambers today,” he begins, glancing around to make certain they weren’t followed. “He asked me to accompany him to the Sept and then informed me I have three days to leave King’s Landing. On the fourth day, he will enlighten your beloved husband that three of the children he claims as his own are actually mine. Somehow I don’t see him reacting kindly to the news.”

He isn’t sure how he expected her to react, but it is certainly not like this, with a long, tired sigh and a slight shake of her head. “I _knew_ it,” she mutters. “He had this strange look in his eyes after Myrcella went on about not looking like Robert’s bastards and how Gendry’s mother had blonde hair. I _knew_ it, but what was I supposed to do? I tried to quiet her, but it was too late. And what could I have said to him after that? I tried to distract him, to talk of others things, but what could I really do? I guess I was just hoping I was wrong.”

“Well, unfortunately, you weren’t wrong. So what are we supposed to do about this? Your bloody father—”

“Please, Jaime, don’t say anything unkind about my father,” she cuts in before he can complete the thought. She reaches forward to softly grasp his hand. “I can hear it in your tone. You blame him, but this isn’t his fault.”

“It will be his fault when all of this falls apart,” Jaime counters. “It will bloody well be his fault if you’re still forced to share Robert’s bed and your sister ends up pregnant with bastard number twenty and my head’s on a fucking spike on the walls of this godsforsaken castle.”

“That would all be _Robert’s_ fault,” she hisses. “And none of that is going to happen.”

Jaime forces himself to take a deep breath instead of arguing with her further. “I should leave tonight,” he says. “I should tell Joffrey, Myrcella, and Tommen we’re leaving early and—”

“And just abandon me here?”

“ _And_ ,” he continues, “I’ll slip the poison into Robert’s wine before I leave. You said it’s nearly impossible to detect and—”

“No,” she interrupts again. “No, that’s not what I wanted. I needed Robert to be out hunting, to be far away from the castle when he dies so there can be no doubt I was blameless. I don’t want any shadows hanging over my reign, over Rickard’s reign. I don’t want—”

“Your father just took a shit on everything you wanted, Sansa,” Jaime snaps. “And now we need to adjust our plans. I’ll kill him tonight. It will be better than we planned. I’ll slit the bastard’s throat and disappear into the night. And then—”

“And then you’ll be caught and killed moments later. Do you think it’s that easy to murder a bloody king? You’re a Kingsguard, for gods’ sake! You know how these things work!” She huffs and takes back her hand. “No, we’re not abandoning the plan. It can still work.”

“Sansa—”

“We just need to move faster, that’s all.”

“Move faster?” Jaime asks incredulously. He glances down at her round stomach, pushing out against the fabric of her dark green riding dress, and smirks. “And how do you intend to make that happen?”

“I’ll—”

“You know,” he interrupts, moving closer and closer to her until she’s pinned between him and the tree. “Maester Pycelle once told Cersei that _fucking_ could get the babe out faster.” He runs his hands down the sides of her bodice and presses a soft kiss to the patch of skin just beneath her ear, eliciting the most delicious little moan from her lips. “Is _that_ what you had in mind, Your Grace? If so, I would be happy to oblige.”

“You were more than welcome to _oblige_ me two nights ago, and you walked away from me. You embarrassed me.” She manages to sound breathless and stern at the same time, and pushes his hands away from her. “What I was going to say is that I could _pretend_ the babe is coming. Robert will call for a hunt the moment he hears about it, and my father will be much too distracted with me to worry about where you are.”

“I suppose, but my plan sounds like a great deal more fun,” he teases, chuckling against her ear. “Don’t you think, Your Grace?” He kisses her neck again, dragging his lips over her pulse, pleased to find it racing.

She gasps and pushes her hands against his chest. “Jaime, don’t—”

“It’s okay, no one will find us. Like you said, it’s the safest place in the Red Keep, provided the trees keep our secret.” After another kiss to her neck, he lifts his head and moves his lips to cover hers instead. He pulls her body closer to his, close enough that he can feel her stomach pressing into him and her heart beating wildly in her chest. The feeling leaves him hard against his breeches. _I can do this_ , he tells himself, as begins to tug at the laces of her dress. _Cersei is gone. She’s gone, and I need this. I can do this._

The ties of her dress prove to be a maze his fingers can’t quite navigate, but he manages to loosen them just enough to get one hand down the front of her dress. The soft flesh fills his hand perfectly, and the press of his thumb over her nipple makes her moan against his mouth. _I can do this. I can do this._

But only a moment later, she’s pushing him away again and frantically trying to fix the front of her dress. “I said _don’t_ , and I meant it,” she snaps. “What you’re doing is cruel.”

There are tears clinging to her cheeks, and for the life of him, he can’t figure out what he has done so wrong. All he knows is he suddenly feels less like Sansa Stark’s savior and more like a monster, more like Robert. “Cruel? I didn’t mean to—I thought—” His voice trails off, as he struggles to find the right words. She had been kissing him back, arching into him, he’s sure of it. “I would never force you, Sansa.”

Sansa sighs and shakes her head. “I know you wouldn’t. That's—that's not what I meant. But you—Jaime, you must know how I feel about you,” she answers, chest heaving up and down with every breath. “Don’t you?”

Jaime only stares back at her stupidly, with no idea what she means or the answer she’s looking for. When it’s clear he doesn’t have a response, she continues, “I’m a stupid girl. I always have been. A stupid, naïve girl who has fallen in love with a handsome, golden knight who will never love her back, and it’s not fair of you to tease me like this. You walked away from me. You made it more than clear how you felt, or how you didn’t feel, and—”

“Sansa, I—”

“I don’t want this, Jaime. I don’t want to pine after you when you run away to Essos and I fade away to the back of your mind, never to be thought of again. This is my new start, so just kill the King,” she pleads. “That’s all I ask of you. Kill the King and then leave my kingdom and me alone. Let me start a new life.”

“Is that really what you want?”

“I want a great many things, Ser Jaime,” she mumbles, looking down at the hem of her skirt. “I want the power to make my own choices. I want to be able to protect my son. I want to love a man who loves me back, who wants to be with me because of _me_ , not because of my name or the crown I wear or whom I might remind him of. But what I _want_ hasn’t mattered for a very long time. I’m not sure if it ever has.”

_Or because of whom I might remind him of._ He’s not sure those words are meant for him, but they feel like a sword to the gut. “I’m sorry, Sansa,” he says weakly, bowing his head, hoping the action communicates the other words he can’t bring himself to say. “And what you want does matter. It matters to me.”

“It’s mine own fault. I should know better by now.”

“No,” he says, gripping her shoulders. “It’s not. None of this is your fault.”

Once, not long ago, he had thought Sansa Stark weak for not fighting the King, for remaining silent when he came to her unwilling bed. But even then, he had never seen her fall apart in public, never seen her waver or stumble. That’s why it scares him when she crumbles under his hands. Her shoulders fall and she presses her face into his chest to muffle a sob. He wraps his arms around her trembling body and holds her, because it is all he can think to do. Cersei never broke down in front of him like this. The press of her body and the tears soaking into his doublet are as exhilarating as they are frightening, and he wishes desperately he had some notion of what to do.

“I’m sorry,” he says again. He rests his cheek against the soft crown of her head and breathes her in, the sweet cinnamon smell of her hair. He thinks that maybe, in a different life, they could have been together, could have even been happy together, even if she’s much too young for him and much too sweet. He considers asking her to run away with him, to take a chance and leave this place behind to start a new life with him across the Narrow Sea. They could take on new names, forget that they were ever a Lannister and a Stark, a Queen and a Knight, and live the rest of their lives without sparing Westeros another thought.

The thought is nearly as pleasant as it is foolish. A new name and setting won’t banish the ghosts that follow him. He can’t even look at his own reflection without seeing Cersei staring back, without feeling her in his bones and his blood, just as much a part of him as she was when she was alive. And running away won’t change what he has done to Sansa Stark’s family in the name of love. A dark truth would constantly hang over the pair of them, one he knows he would not be able to hide forever.

Yes, perhaps in another life they could have been happy. But it is not this life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> Next up is Robert's POV, which should definitely be interesting to write.


	6. Robert I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things would have been different with the younger sister, he’s sure of that. She is the wolf maid he has wanted since he first laid eyes on Lyanna Stark in a pair of muddy riding breeches with brilliant blue winter roses woven in her hair. The world lit up when she smiled at him that day, with those roses in her hair, and he knew instantly she was the woman he was meant to be with forever.

Robert Baratheon wakes to a sudden, sharp clanging sound and vicious throbbing in his temples. It feels like something has trapped itself inside of his skull and is now desperately pounding against it, trying to break free. “The fuck you think you’re doing, boy?” he groans, burying his face into his pillows. “Get the fuck out of my chambers before I kill you.”

He isn’t sure which one of his squires was stupid enough to drop something in his chambers at a time like this, but he has no desire to open his eyes to find out. The morning sunlight he knows must be streaming in from his windows by the way the birds are chirping would only add to his already excruciating headache. He isn’t sure he could ever bear to live without the wine, but it is mornings like this one that make him seriously consider giving it up, albeit only briefly.

“Wine, boy!” he shouts against his pillow, hoping the offending squire hasn’t scurried away just yet. Mercifully, only moments later, he feels the familiar press of a wineskin against his hand and sighs with relief. Wine will ease the ache. It always does.

He gulps down the wine without opening his eyes. It’s a good vintage, probably a Dornish Red, sour with just a little heat that makes the back of his throat burn in the best way. “How did I get here, boy?” Last he remembers he was drinking a similar tasting wine in his tent outside the tournament grounds with a pretty whore between his legs.

The squire doesn’t answer right away, and Robert suspects he’s considering pretending to have already left to avoid revealing his identity by his voice. “Uh, well, Ser—Ser Boros and Ser Mandon, they carried—um, _helped_ you back from your tent last night, Your Grace,” he squeaks out. “You had fallen asleep. They said the tournament had left you tired.”

 _It’s the Lannister brat then. I should have known, clumsy little shit._ “Fallen asleep, my arse.” He loathes how everyone in King’s Landing insists on dancing around the truth, as if avoiding saying it out loud somehow makes it go away. Perhaps the King of the Seven Kingdoms should know how to moderate his wine intake better, perhaps the King of the Seven Kingdoms should enjoy counting coppers and sitting at Small Council, and should only fuck his frigid little Queen, but he has never been much interested in doing what other people expected of him. “All right then, get out, boy.”

“Uh, Your—Your Grace, the um—well, the Lord Hand was here earlier this morning and—”

“I said get out! That was a command from your King, boy!” A sharp pain shoots through his gut at the mention of Ned. Flashes of last night come back to him abruptly and violently, taunting him and somehow making him feel even sicker. _You were supposed to protect her, Robert. You were supposed to protect her, but all you do is hurt her._ Those words, soft and sad and brimming with condemnation, and the disappointment in Ned’s eyes hurt more than any wound he has ever taken in battle.

He doesn’t understand why Ned must always think the worst of him. Why can’t he see the truth of matters? Why can’t he see that Robert _wanted_ to do right by Sansa, but she made it impossible? If only Ned knew how the girl cries and mutters silly prayers and stares up at the ceiling every time he fucks her like he’s torturing her, even when he goes slowly, even when he tries to make it good for her. When he first saw the girl, he thought she was even more beautiful than Cersei had been at that age, but he never imagined she’d prove to be just as cold as his first wife. The same look Cersei had always worn in his presence—a look of pure disgust and disdain—now resides on Sansa’s face whenever he is near. How is he supposed to love a girl who despises him so deeply?

Things would have been different with the younger sister, he’s sure of that. She is the wolf maid he has wanted since he first laid eyes on Lyanna Stark in a pair of muddy riding breeches with brilliant blue winter roses woven in her hair. The world lit up when she smiled at him that day, with those roses in her hair, and he knew instantly she was the woman he was meant to be with forever. He had known giving the tournament’s winter rose to Arya instead of Sansa would upset Ned, but he couldn’t resist seeing the girl wearing one in her hair just like Lyanna used to. The contrast of the striking blue against her dark, almost black tresses was even more magnificent than he imagined in his dreams of the moment. He only wishes she had leaned forward to kiss him then, as she always did in the dreams.

In his fantasies, her lips are warm and soft like Lyanna’s had been. They open up to him willingly, almost wantonly. Her breasts are small like Lyanna’s and her body taut and humming with lust as he pushes her up against the wall and thrusts himself into her for the first time. She claws at his back and bites at his neck and suddenly he is no longer fat King Robert. No, he is Robert Baratheon, the warrior who slew Rhaegar Targaryen at the Battle of the Trident, the warrior who watched the rubies of the Dragon Prince’s armor fall into the river along with his blood. They make a beautiful pair like that, a warrior and his fierce she-wolf, just like he and Lyanna would have been had that monster not stolen her and raped her and killed her.

The pillow feels damp against his face, but he refuses to acknowledge that he’s crying. Powerful men don’t cry, his father had at least taught him that much before he died. It is a shame he was never able to teach Renly the same. No, powerful men relieve such emotions in different ways, in fucking and fighting and drinking. He slams his fist into the headboard of his bed, desperate to feel anything but the tightening of his chest and tears in his eyes, and takes another long swig of the wine. He’ll need to be good and drunk when Ned inevitably confronts him about the day before. He’ll no doubt be expecting Robert to apologize, to beg for his forgiveness, to vow to do right by Sansa from now on, but he has no plans to do any of those things. This is Ned’s fault as much as it is Rhaegar Targaryen’s. He ought to have told him Arya would grow to be just like Lyanna, but he stole her away from him, leaving him with a wife who is more a porcelain doll than a woman.

Perhaps some of the blame rests with him as well. He should have looked closer at the girl with the dark hair and gray eyes that matched Lyanna’s, but she had been a dirty, tattered creature as a child. He assumed she’d grow up to look more like Benjen with longer hair, but instead she transformed into a beauty even more striking than her aunt right before his eyes. It is agony to watch her walk around the Red Keep every day and not be able to touch her, especially when she is walking at his own bastard son’s side. The big brute will defile her before long, but that’s not what truly angers him. What truly angers Robert is the stupid, surly boy won’t even realize how lucky he is to have her and that he’ll never be able to give her everything she deserves. Robert could give her a crown and a castle and the admiration of an entire kingdom. What can the bastard son of a whore give her other than his cock? He ought to send him away or even kill the boy before he brings ruin upon her.

A loud knock at the door pulls him out of those dark thoughts. “I’m busy,” he grunts. “Go away.”

“It’s important, Your Grace.”

 _Seven hells, another fucking Lannister. Will I never be rid of them?_ He knows the Kingslayer’s voice well enough by now; the man has been guarding him for near twenty years. Robert used to take pleasure in having Jaime Lannister in his power, used to enjoy commanding him to stand guard outside his chambers while he fucked whores or, on one occasion, even Cersei herself. But these days, he can barely stand the sight of him. When Cersei died, he thought he had finally escaped her and her hateful stares, but her shade continues to haunt his castle in the form of her twin brother.

The Kingslayer must take his lack of response as permission to enter, because he hears the doors creak open. Robert tries not to linger too long on how much the man must love seeing him like this, pathetic and drunk and broken, a mere shell of the man he used to be. “What do you want, Kingslayer?”

“Your wife, the Queen, is in labor, Your Grace.”

Robert shoots up at that, forgetting to wipe the tears from his cheek or the wine from his beard before he faces him. “What did you say?”

“Queen Sansa is in labor. Your child is on the way, Your Grace. Congratulations.”

The Kingslayer’s voice is flat, making it clear he doesn’t mean it. There’s hatred in his sharp green eyes that matches that of his sister’s so perfectly, he can hardly stand to keep looking at him. He’s not sure he can blame the man for hating him though. When his sister took her last breaths, Robert was fucking one of her handmaidens in his tent, loudly enough for most of the traveling party to hear, maybe even for Cersei to hear. Ned was furious at him for it for near a month. He had insisted more than once that Robert visit his wife before she passed, but he never did go to her side. She wouldn’t have wanted him there any more than he would’ve wanted to be there anyways.

“Are you sure? Pycelle said it was weeks away yet.”

“Quite certain, Your Grace.”

Robert groans and rolls his eyes. The pounding headache he’s suffering from isn’t exactly ideal for a hunt, but he’s not about to stay at the Red Keep while his wife pushes out the babe. Ned will no doubt expect him to visit her to witness the bloody mess and praise her, as if giving him heirs is some great gift rather than her duty as his wife. At least this will give him an excuse to leave the castle before Ned can track him down and make him answer for what he did the day before. “Call a hunt then. You know how this goes.”

The Kingslayer’s lips twist into a smirk. “No questions about your wife’s health then? Or that of your child’s?”

Robert flings the wineskin at him before he can think to restrain himself. He’s pleased when it lands against his chest, splashes the Kingslayer’s face, and soaks his doublet red. “It’s not your right to question _me_ ,” he spits. “Call the fucking hunt.”

Jaime wipes the wine from his face with the back of his sleeve and nods. “As you command, Your Grace,” he says with feigned deference. “It will be done within the hour.”

When he hears the doors shut, Robert grudgingly rolls himself out of his bed. He’s annoyed to find himself still dressed in the same, grimy clothes from yesterday. The men guarding him are supposed to be the bravest in the kingdom, but not one of them seemed to possess the daring or the courtesy to tug the soiled trousers off their drunken King.

He considers calling for a bath, but he doesn’t want to waste any time in leaving lest Ned find him and demand he stay for the birth. The day Rickard was born, Ned had blustered and pleaded with Robert not to go for his customary hunt. _What if something happens to Sansa? Or to the child?_ Robert couldn’t understand his friend’s concerns. If something went wrong with the birth, what use could he possibly be? What comfort could he bring the girl? Maybe Ned hadn’t quite figured out how much his daughter hated him yet.

Instead of the bath, he splashes some of the water from his basin over his face and under his arms. “Boy!” he shouts. “I need to be dressed for a hunt!”

The skinny Lannister cousin Cersei had insisted he take on a squire walks in with the two other boys who serve him. Each of them is holding an item of clothing. “Yes, Your Grace, Ser Jaime informed us of the hunt.”

“Am I so fat it takes three men to dress me now?” Robert laughs. “You, boy, what was your name again?”

“Edwyn, Your Grace.”

“Yes, Edwyn, that’s right. Didn’t I say I’d call you Ed? Anyways, Ed, I’ll need you to round up some special guests for my hunt. Inform my sons they’ll be joining me—”

“I’ll let Prince Joffrey and—”

“Let me finish, would you?” Robert snaps, tempted to smack the boy upside the head. “You’ll be informing my _other_ sons. Edric Storm and the other one—the big, strong one, Gendry, I think. Can you handle that?”

“Yes, Your Grace, of course,” Edwyn answers, before dashing away.

The idea of Joffrey and Tommen accompanying him on a hunt is laughable. Tommen would cry like a little girl at the sight of every dead animal, and Joffrey would be so reckless with his stupid crossbow he’d probably kill at least one of the party instead of any game. Sometimes he seriously doubts whether they are even his children. They all take so strongly after their mother, it’s difficult to properly judge. Robert isn’t sure if Cersei would have been careless enough to have an affair right under his nose. Then again, he never took much interest in his late wife’s actions during the day, and perhaps the bitch was devious enough to pull it off. Gods, she is probably laughing at him from all of the Seven Hells if that is the truth of it, if bastard spawn that isn’t even his is next in line for the Iron Throne.

It takes what feels like hours for his squires to dress him in his hunting garb. With every passing moment, he feels more and more restless. It’s a ridiculous tradition, and he finds himself longing for the days when he had the privilege of dressing himself.

“Should I retrieve Ser Jaime, Your Grace?”

“No, not yet. I’d like to see my son before we depart.” That makes both boys look nervous. They clearly have no idea which son he means and don’t want to assume the wrong one like Edwyn. “My son Rickard,” he sighs. “The one that’s just a babe.”

“Of course, Your Grace!” the third boy, whose name is currently escaping him as well, exclaims. “Princess Myrcella and her ladies are watching him while Queen Sansa is with the Grand Maester. Should we leave for her chambers?”

Robert feels himself grimace. He has no desire to see his daughter. The Kingslayer might remind him of his deceased wife, but Myrcella is Cersei Lannister reborn. Every time he is around her, he catches himself staring at her face, searching for any trace of himself there, any feature that does not belong solely to Cersei, but he never finds any. She’s a sweet child, he must admit, and especially clever. Sometimes he even wishes they had something of a relationship. Maybe they could have, if he were capable of looking upon her face without feeling a familiar resentment twist and burn in his gut.

“I suppose we should,” he mutters. “On with it then.”

Myrcella opens her arms and embraces him the moment he enters her chambers, as if he has come to visit her, even after his squire clearly announces he is here for his son. He tenses at her touch and only manages to awkwardly pat her back between the shoulder blades in response. The smile on her face falters for a moment when she pulls away, but she’s nearly as skilled at covering up her unhappiness as his little wife. He wonders if Sansa or Cersei taught her that trick. “Rickard is sleeping in the other room. He had a restless sleep last night. I think he knows something is happening with his mother, and he’s scared for her. It really would be best not to wake him. He would only cry for the rest of the day.”

“I won’t wake the boy,” Robert says, trying not to bristle at his daughter informing him how to handle his own son. When he enters the other room, the woman sitting by the bed jumps at the sight of him and swiftly scampers away, leaving him alone as he had hoped for.

He stops and takes in the sight of his youngest son, snoring softly on Myrcella’s bed. He runs his hands through Rickard’s soft, black hair and sighs. Part of him longs to wake the boy, to see his dark blue eyes and make him smile and maybe even take him on the hunt, as he had hoped to do with Joffrey and Tommen someday when they were first born. Even if Sansa Stark will never be the wife he wants, even if they are destined to leave this world despising each other, he can’t deny he loves her a little for giving him this boy, this perfect boy who looks so like him, so like a Baratheon. Once, when he was particularly drunk, he asked Lord Littlefinger if it would be possible for him to name Rickard his heir without starting a war with Tywin Lannister. Lord Baelish responded with a smile and, _anything is possible when you’re the King of Westeros, Your Grace._ Robert had almost asked him to arrange it then, but he isn’t sure he’d want to do things Littlefinger’s way. Plus, the idea of a war with the West sounds more exciting than frightening these days. At least it would give him something to do other than listening to Ned whine about the crown’s debt.

“Rickard will have another sister soon. That’s my guess, at least. But Sansa is convinced it will be boy. She wants to name him Brandon if it’s a boy. Did she tell you? I think it’s a nice name.” He turns to find Myrcella standing in the doorway, a strange look on her face as she regards the pair of them.

He almost laughs at that—four trueborn children and who knows how many bastards, and he has not named a single one of them. Not one of them carries a name from his family. There is not a Steffon or Cassana or Robert amongst them. He considers what Sansa would do if he insisted on naming the child Steffon instead of some Northron name. _She’d smile, say that’s a lovely name, praise me for the thought, and then call the child whatever the hell she wanted behind my back._

“I hear you’ve called for a hunt.”

Robert looks away from Myrcella to run his thumb over Rickard’s cheekbone. His son has a handsome face with a strong chin and thick eyebrows. One day, he will grow up to look just like Robert had looked in his youth. Beautiful maidens will blush and giggle and whisper amongst themselves whenever he walks past them. They’ll all want to be his Queen of Love and Beauty, to accept his crown of roses when he triumphs in the jousts. They’ll all love him. Robert hasn’t liked thinking of the future in a very long time. It only ever leaves him depressed and desperate for another drink, but it does not seem quite so bad when he thinks of his young son’s future instead.

“Father?”

“Yes, I’ve called for a bloody hunt, Myrcella,” he snaps. “What does it matter to you?” He hopes the harsh tone of his voice scares her away, so he can focus on his son. He pulls a blanket from the edge of the bed and tucks it over Rickard’s small shoulders. He watches the boy’s body rise and fall with every soft breath and wonders what he is dreaming about. He hopes they are good dreams. “Sleep well, son,” he whispers, before pressing a kiss to his temple.

With that, he marches out of the room, brushing past Myrcella as he does. To his frustration, Myrcella follows after him. “Aren’t you worried about Sansa at all? Have you even asked about her?”

“Women give birth every day, Myrcella,” Robert answers. “She’ll be fine. Hell, she’s not even your real mother, so what’s it to you?”

He’s not looking at her face, but he can feel her frowning at him, can feel her looking at his back like he’s some kind of monster. “Women also die every day,” she says softly. “Enjoy your hunt, Father. Edric is very excited for it.”

Robert decides not to respond. Instead, he waves over his squires and leads them out of his daughter’s chambers. They make their way to the yard outside the Tower of the Hand where the hunting party is waiting for him. The Kingslayer is the first of the party to step forward and bows his head. “Your Grace.”

Robert is tempted to demand they depart immediately, but something tugs at him then, something that feels annoyingly like guilt. The sight of his innocent babe has stirred something in him that he can’t quite describe. “I’d like to see the Hand before I leave,” he says, surprising himself with the request. “Do you know where he is?”

The Kingslayer raises his eyebrows. “The Hand is with his daughter, Your Grace. Would you like to visit her—?”

“Gods, no,” Robert groans before Jaime can finish the question. If Robert dares step in those chambers, he’s not sure Ned would ever let him leave. “Forget it. It was a stupid notion anyways. It’s nothing that can’t wait another day, and nothing will get him to leave that girl’s side, even for a moment.”

The Kingslayer nods, and Robert suddenly realizes the man is _smiling_ at him. Jaime Lannister hasn’t smiled in his presence in years, let alone smiled _at him_. He’s certainly not the only man in the Red Keep who hates Robert, but most of them make the effort to hide their feelings in front of him. Jaime has never made such an effort until now, and the expression leaves Robert nearly as anxious as it does angry. “Wipe that fucking smirk off your face.”

“Your Grace?” Jaime asks innocently.

“You know what I’m talking about,” he spits, as an idea strikes him. “Down on your knees, Kingslayer,” he sneers, unable to keep from grinning. Jaime narrows his eyes at the command, but the smile doesn’t waver. “It appears the laces of my boot have come undone, and I can’t have that. Lace them back up, Kingslayer, if you would.” It is unseemly to make a sworn knight of the Kingsguard complete such a degrading, menial task, and most of the men surrounding them are shifting uncomfortably in their saddles, but Robert doesn’t give a shit.  It will be worth it to make that damned smile disappear. “Careful now, Kingslayer, make sure you tie them right,” he mocks. “The King’s boot coming off during a hunt is a crime punishable by death, you know.”

The Kingslayer goes right on smiling like some sort of simpleton, as he drops to his knees and begins to fix the laces. He finds himself even more determined to make that smile go away and knows exactly what he needs to say to accomplish it. He leans forward and whispers the next words so only Jaime can hear them, “I like seeing you like this, Kingslayer. It reminds me of my beloved wife, the first one. Do you remember her? She _loved_ getting on her knees for me. It was where she belonged, if you ask me.”

Just as knew it would, the smile instantly vanishes and is replaced by a dark, almost murderous look, but the Kingslayer’s hands don’t drop the laces. “There you go, Your Grace,” he says with a clenched jaw. “I pray you find my boot lacing abilities satisfactory.”

A tense silence falls over the hunting party, as he and the Kingslayer stand across from each other, neither breaking eye contact. It is Robert who ultimately looks away first. “It’s time to leave, boys!” he calls out for everyone gathered to hear him. The crowd responds with a grand cheer that eases some of his worries. “Let’s bring home a grand feast in honor of my new son or daughter! Let the wine and the blood flow!”

That elicits more cheers. He isn’t sure if any of them are genuine. He hasn’t been sure of anyone’s genuineness but Ned’s since he claimed the Iron Throne, but the admiration gives him a rush all the same. It is a rush that rapidly fades away when he catches sight of his little blond shit of a son marching toward him with a crossbow slung over his shoulder. “Father! Father!” Joffrey shouts, his voice cracking. “Father! Why was I not summoned for the hunt? Did your moronic squire forget—?”

Robert can’t stop the bellowing laugh that leaves his lips. Joffrey flinches at the sound and stops dead in his tracks. “And why the hell would I bring you, boy?”

Joffrey’s eyes narrow, and he stares at Robert like he’s trying to discern if it is a serious question or some kind of a jape. “I’m your son!” he finally shouts. “Your trueborn son! You invite these—these _bastards_ to join you but—”

“This is a _hunt_ , and last I checked you can’t even kill a rabbit in the gardens with that thing. What makes you think you’d stand a chance against real game? Forget the rabbits, you couldn’t hit a fucking fish in a barrel.” He had hoped the jape would earn him some laughs, but the men around him all seem to be tenser and more silent than the next.

To his surprise and even a little to his shame, Joffrey visibly deflates in front of him at the comment. He had expected an instant fit of temper or ridiculous, pompous boasts of his prowess with a crossbow, but his son actually looks embarrassed for once. It doesn’t last long though. Soon the boy’s mouth twists and his chest puffs out, making him look far more like the obnoxious, spoiled twit Robert has grown accustomed to. “I am your son,” he hisses. “I am the future King of Westeros. And I—"

“Joffrey,” Jaime interjects gently, “Lady Margaery was looking for you this morning. Why don’t you seek her out? She must be terribly worried about the Queen. It would be very gallant of you to comfort her.”

Joffrey glares at his uncle for a long moment before finally nodding. “Yes, yes that is what I came here to say,” he claims, as he turns his nose up at Robert. “I will not be able to join you on the hunt, Father. I apologize, but my future Queen needs me today.”

Robert snorts. “Well then, aren’t you just bloody Aemon the Dragonknight reborn?” He has never thought the petulant boy deserved a woman like Margaery Tyrell, beautiful and sensual and too clever by half. He could have had the lovely Rose of Highgarden for himself if he wanted, and perhaps he should have. The Tyrells offered her up without hesitation after Cersei died, but he didn’t trust them any more than he trusted the Lannisters. Instead, he chose to trust Ned, the man who has been like a brother to him since he arrived in the Vale, but his dearest friend left him with a wife nearly as ungrateful as his last one. The girl should love him simply for having prevented her from having to marry his awful son.

He turns to his squire, hoping Joffrey will have vanished by the time he turns back around, and holds his hand out, “Wine, boy. Where’s the fucking wine?”

“A special vintage has been brought for you in honor of this great occasion,” the Kingslayer interrupts, producing a wineskin seemingly from thin air. “Brought over from across the Narrow Sea.”

“Bringing me wine now, Kingslayer? Trying to replace your cousin as my serving boy?” Robert taunts. “You liked kneeling before me, didn’t you?”

The Kingslayer doesn’t answer. Instead, he shrugs, turns from Robert, and begins to walk away with the wine, but Robert pulls him back and snatches the skin away from him. He takes a long drink from it, and the taste of the harsh, sour red immediately relaxes him. He feels his headache begin to wane and a comforting warmth flows through his body. Even when the feeling that his life is nothing he wanted threatens to destroy him, the drink can always soothe him and bring him back from the edge.

They leave shortly after that and make it to the Kingswood in good time. Before they had even reached the wood, Robert was already feeling good and drunk, but now he is practically swaying off his horse. _That must be strong wine. I’ll have to demand more be brought over._ He calls over his shoulder for another skin, but Renly pulls up his horse by Robert’s side before it can be handed to him.

“Are you all right, brother? You don't look well.”

Robert can hear the concern and annoyance plainly in Renly’s tone, but a perfect, handsome grin remains on his face for the rest to observe. Not for the first time, he wishes he could punch it off without causing a scene. Their father never taught them to be fake for others, to smile when they wanted curse, to flatter when they wanted to fight. Robert wonders how Stannis could have allowed their little brother to grow up so ridiculous.

“I’m fine,” he spits. “I’m just out of wine.”

“Don’t you think you’ve had enough? At least for now?”

“Where are my sons?” he shouts, ignoring his brother’s question. “Edric! Gendry! Get over here and humor your fat, old father!”

The boys appear dutifully at his side opposite of Renly. The bastard son he got on one of the Florent girls in the Stormlands has an enthusiastic grin on his face that clashes with the irritated scowl the whore’s son is wearing. Robert isn’t sure what exactly he has done to make the boy hate him so much, maybe it was abandoning his mother or maybe he’s just worried his father will steal the beautiful Northern rose away from him.

“Do y’know why I like hunts, boys?” Robert begins, unbothered by the sound of his words slurring together. “Reminds me of marching off to war! You boys will never know the feeling, the _rush_ and _brotherhood_ of battle. There’s nothing else like it in the world. Not even the best fuck of your life will ever come close to the feeling of driving your sword through the throat of your enemy in the heart of battle. You don’t know what’s like to live until you’ve killed a man, and until you’ve fucked a good woman afterwards, the stench and blood of battle still clinging to your skin.”

Edric blushes like a maiden but hangs off every word that comes out of his mouth. Even Gendry appears at least a little impressed, and Robert feels some of his old pride come rushing back to him. As they drive forward on their horses, Robert can almost imagine he’s fighting against the Targaryens to avenge the woman he loves, can almost imagine he’s all lean muscle and brute strength instead of rolls of excess flesh. “I’ll teach you boys how a real man fights. And I’ll teach you how to please a woman, eh? I bet you boys haven’t even touched a lady yet, have you? We’ll fix that. Wouldn’t want you ending up like the Kingslayer over there, dressed in a pretty white cloak and practically begging for a fuck.”

He turns, hoping to find Jaime Lannister scowling, but that same fucking smile is still planted firmly on his face. “Yeah, I’ll teach you boys like my father taught me before I went to the Vale,” he continues. “You are _Baratheons_ , and that _means_ something.”

Renly begins to say something in response, but a shout from the front cuts him off. “Boar!” the man calls. “Boar!”

Robert kicks the flank of his horse and charges his way through the party to the front, the men parting before him like waves. “The beast is mine!” he declares, clumsily pulling free his war hammer. He takes in the sight of the giant beast with its sharp tusks and vicious, black eyes and grins. He can hear his brother shouting something at him, but the sounds of battle drums and the clanging of swords against armor in his head drowns out whatever it is.

As he advances on the beast, he thinks of the great stories he’ll tell of this day, of when he killed the giant boar of the Kingswood with one blow of his hammer. As he advances on the beast, he thinks that he can become that man he once was again, that he can shed the flesh and meaningless duties that weigh him down. As he advances on the beast, he thinks of how he will present the boar to Arya Stark and of how she will look up at him then, with an awe and admiration that could rival even Lyanna’s.

Yes, he will tell stories of this day, of the day he defeated the beast.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!


	7. Sansa II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The cold, snow-covered land around her is eerily silent, but the world in Sansa’s mind is alive with music and regret.

Sansa lets out a scream even more piercing than her last one. Maester Pycelle flinches at the sound and starts to roll his eyes, though he clearly thinks better of it and blinks violently a few times instead.

“Why aren’t you _helping_ her?” Her father is pacing anxiously by her bedside, only stopping occasionally to hold her hand or shoot a withering glare at the elderly maester. “She’s clearly in pain, and you’re just standing there like a fool!”

Sansa almost pities the old man. If he hadn’t made his displeasure over her attending Small Council meetings so insultingly obvious, she probably would have even felt guilty for subjecting him to this charade. She isn’t in pain and she isn’t about to give birth, and he seemed to realize it almost immediately upon examining her. Most like he has decided she is massively overreacting to a simple upset stomach or faking the symptoms for attention, but he certainly can’t say as much to the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms and her father. “I sincerely apologize, Lord Hand. I assure you that I am doing everything I can think of for Her Grace.” Pycelle bows his head and presses his shaking, wrinkled hands together. “And I _have_ given her something to ease the pain.”

He gave her a glass of milk of the poppy, which she promptly dumped behind her bed when neither of them was paying attention. It is important for her to keep her wits about her. She didn’t even allow herself a glass of wine to ease her nerves that morning before she began screaming and demanding her maids fetch Maester Pycelle straight away.

“The pain is so horrible, father,” she whispers, hoping it doesn’t sound as melodramatic to him as it does to her. She reaches out to squeeze his hand and looks up at him with the wide blue eyes she knows he can’t say no to. “Is something wrong with the babe? Please, tell me something’s not wrong with my baby. I couldn’t bear it.” She knows it’s cruel to worry her father over this, over nothing, but she can’t have him leaving her side to seek out Robert or Jaime, and she can’t have him letting Maester Pycelle leave either lest he open his big mouth about her condition and prompt Robert to call off the hunt.

“Oh, Sansa, I’m sure nothing is wrong with the babe,” he assures her gently. “Don’t worry about that, all right? Everything is going to be fine.” He turns and fixes Pycelle with another glare. “Right, Grand Maester?”

Pycelle sighs and offers Sansa a gruesome, yellow smile she expects is meant to be comforting. “I can’t see any reason to think something might be wrong with the babe, Your Grace. Some stomach discomfort is not uncommon at this time and—”

Before he can finish, Sansa wails again, even louder than before, and grabs at the imaginary pain in her stomach. “Thisis _not_ just stomach discomfort, Pycelle!” her father roars. “Something’s wrong! Can’t you see that? Or do I need to call for another maester?” Her father’s voice is deep and commanding, almost like a growl. He’s usually so calm that this sudden ferocity catches her by surprise. It almost makes her smile. It feels good to watch someone fight for her for once.

Pycelle is silent for a long moment. He refuses to meet her father’s eyes and appears to be searching desperately for something to say that will pacify the pair of them. The door suddenly slams open, and the sound only serves to fluster Pycelle further, but Sansa allows herself a brief smile when she sees Arya, with Jeyne Poole close at her heels, come inside. “What’s going on? Is the babe coming or something? Ser Barristan wouldn’t tell me anything, even though I’m the Queen’s bloody _sister_. But the King left for the hunt and—”

Sansa doesn’t hear the rest of what Arya says. A wave of relief crashes over her at the confirmation Robert has left the Red Keep. Whether Jaime can manage his escape across the Narrow Sea is still up to question, whether her subjects will believe she is without blame for the King’s sudden death and accept young Rickard Baratheon as their new King is still up to question, but if her husband has really left the castle then Sansa will no longer have to carry any doubt that this is the day Robert Baratheon dies. She knows Jaime will not fail her in this. Well, she knows he will not fail Cersei in this, at least.

“Your sister is perfectly fine, Lady Arya—”

Before Pycelle can say too much— _the walls have ears, sweetling_ —Sansa shrieks and cries out for more milk of the poppy, trying to make it clear she is not perfectly fine. Her father is immediately demanding Pycelle heed her wishes and frightened tears start streaming down Jeyne’s cheeks, but Arya remains still and fixes her with an appraising stare. _She’s too clever for her own good sometimes_. She meets Arya’s eyes and hopes she can silently communicate what she needs to say— _Today is the day, and I need you to play along. Please play along._

After a moment of consideration that seems to last forever, Arya slips past their father and Maester Pycelle to grasp Sansa’s hand in her own. “Everything is going to be fine, Sansa,” she practically coos, in a voice far sweeter than she’s ever heard Arya use before. “Maybe the babe is on its way. It’s going to be fine.”

Maester Pycelle stands with hunched, defeated shoulders at the end of her bed and sighs, “I’ve checked, and the babe is not—”

“Well, check again, stupid,” Arya snaps.

Pycelle closes his eyes and takes a long, deep breath but eventually nods. “Yes, of course, my lady. You’re right. I will check again, just to be absolutely certain. I assure you the Queen’s health is of the utmost importance to me. Your Grace, if you would please sit the way I asked you to before, I’ll examine you once more.”

Sansa obliges, releasing Arya’s hand and shimmying down the bed. Her father looks away and begins to pace again. “Jeyne, are you sure King Robert has already left for the hunt?”

Jeyne flinches at the sound of her name and has to tear her eyes away from Sansa to answer. “I—I’m not—no, I’m not certain, Lord Stark. I’m sorry. They were preparing to leave when Arya and I walked past them. The—the King was making a speech, about how the hunt would be in honor of his new son or daughter. That was the last thing I heard. We came to check on Sansa right after that.”

That sends a shock through Sansa, and she shoots straight up, nearly sending her knee flying into Pycelle’s face in the process. The Grand Maester stumbles backwards and lands on his rear with a _thump._

Her father frowns at her and then turns back to Jeyne. “See if he’s still here, Jeyne, if you would. His wife is ill, and he really ought to see her before he leaves. Actually, don’t tell him that. Tell him the Hand needs to see him instead. Then bring him here.”

“Of course, Lord Stark,” Jeyne says, dipping into a short curtsy. “I’ll be back soon, Sansa, I promise,” she adds softly, with a nervous smile. “It’s going to be fine. I know it.”

When Jeyne slips through the door, Sansa shoots Arya a look she knows must be filled with the panic now building up inside of her. Without hesitation, her sister drops her hand and sprints after Jeyne. “I’m coming with you!” she hears Arya shout from the other side of the wall. She hopes Arya knows what Sansa needs her to do, to pick a fight with Jeyne like she has done a hundred times before and make certain she never reaches Robert Baratheon.

_Even if Jeyne finds him, he won’t abandon his hunt to visit you. He hates you. He didn’t even bother to see Cersei on her deathbed._ She tries to calm herself, but nothing seems to ease the terror now overwhelming her. Every one of her muscles tenses, sweat pools under arms and across her forehead and her upper lip, her hands feel numb, and her heart is beating so rapidly, she’s convinced she must be dying. “I—I—” She attempts to speak and keep up her act or perhaps sincerely beg for Pycelle’s help, but even breathing has become a nearly impossible task. Each sharp intake of breath sounds like a whine, a wheeze. She reaches out for something and ends up gripping her own knees, curling in on herself.

“Sansa? Gods, Sansa, what’s wrong?” She feels one of her father’s hands brush back some of the damp strands of hair clinging to her forehead. “Gods, Pycelle, she’s shaking. What’s happening?”

When Pycelle’s withered hands start roaming over her body, pressing and pinching and prodding, she wants to scream. “Can you speak, Sansa?” Pycelle asks. “Can you tell me what you’re feeling?”

She wants to answer. She wants to snap at him that she’s in pain and that the babe is coming whether he believes her or not like she planned, but the words stick in her throat and evaporate with every short, painful breath she takes. All she had to do was pretend. She’s given birth before and should have been more than capable of mimicking the symptoms. Jaime is the one with the difficult task, the dangerous task. Jaime is the one who has to poison the wine and ensure Robert drinks enough of it to kill him. All she had to do was do what she does every day, lie and pretend, but at the first sign of trouble she has fallen apart. _If this plan fails, it will be because of you. If Jaime dies and Robert returns to your bed, you’ll have no one to blame but yourself for being so weak._

_Calm down, calm down, calm down._ No matter how many times she chants the words in her mind like a prayer, she can’t force herself to relax. The more she pleads with herself to breathe, the more panicked she feels. When her father kneels by the bed to look into her eyes, her dread only increases. If Jaime is caught because of her stupidity, what is to stop him from revealing her part in this mess? What would her father think of her then? Would he even argue when Robert called for her head?

A sudden, intense spasm in her lower back distracts her from those thoughts. She cries out and abruptly unfurls from the fetal position, desperate to find a position that eases the pain. It does cease for a moment, but it strikes again just as quickly, this time radiating across her stomach, leaving the muscles of her abdomen rigid underneath her palms. She knows this feeling well enough. She knows what’s about to happen, and it wasn’t part of the plan.

“It’s too soon!” she cries. This time her distress is genuine, and Pycelle seems to notice the change. “Make it stop, please make it stop,” she groans. “It’s too soon. This can’t be happening! It’s too soon!”

“Prop her up with those pillows there,” Pycelle snaps at her father, apparently no longer concerned about toadying to the Hand. “Your Grace, I’m going to need you to breathe more slowly, okay? Long, deep breaths, and open your legs again. Can you do that for me?”

_No, no, no._ She clenches her thighs together, as if that will make the pain stop, as if that will make this all stop. _No, this is not happening._ She squeezes her eyes shut and finds herself remembering a letter her mother sent her after she announced her first pregnancy. Catelyn Stark had offered her daughter pages full of advice, which Sansa quickly took to heart like everything her mother told her, but now only one warning stands out. _Be careful to avoid too much stress, my love. You don’t want the babe to come too soon._

The pain shoots out from her lower back again, and this time it’s accompanied by a warm, wet feeling between her legs. Her first thought is that she must have peed herself. Her cheeks burn red with shame, and she waits for Pycelle to lift his head and look at her with disgust. Instead, he calmly says, “The Queen’s water has passed.”

“I—the water— _what_?” her father asks, one hand running though his hair and the other maintaining a comforting grip on his daughter’s hand. “Does that mean—?”

“The babe is on the way, yes,” Pycelle confirms, looking far calmer than he had been when Sansa was only faking. “It is early, yes, but not so early as to worry overmuch. I’m going to need you to relax and start taking deep breaths, Your Grace. Just like last time. It has only just started, and we’re going to be here a while yet.”

_Did I do this?_ She almost asks the question. She might of, if she hadn’t been so afraid of the answer. _Is this my punishment for daring to kill a king? Will my babe be the one to suffer for my sins?_

Pycelle is shouting at her handmaidens for a basin of water and blankets when Arya and Jeyne walk through her door again. “Seven hells, what happened here?”

“The Queen is going to give birth to a new prince or princess, Lady Arya,” Maester Pycelle answers in between accusing her handmaidens of being simpletons. “And perhaps it would be best to have fewer people in the room during the birth. Her Grace is already under a lot of stress. Lord Stark, it is really not proper for—”

“I’m not leaving her,” her father declares. Men other than the maester are traditionally barred from the birthing room, but Sansa is relieved her father is willing to ignore the rules this once. “Everything’s going to be fine, love,” he says, brushing her hair away from her face to wrap it over one of her shoulders. “Listen to Maester Pycelle and breathe, okay?”

It is no easy task to replace her sharp breaths with long, deep ones, but she makes herself comply for the sake of the babe in her belly. While she struggles with her breathing, Arya and Jeyne move gradually from the door to the side of her bed opposite her father. Arya is openly staring at her, and Sansa can tell she’s trying to figure out whether or not she’s still pretending. Sansa reaches out for her sister’s hand and squeezes hard enough to bruise, knowing the gesture will answer the question.

“Has my husband left for his hunt?”

Arya nods. “The bastard was already gone by the time we got to there.”

“ _Arya_ , language,” her father snaps.

“We might have reached him in time had Lady Arya not tripped me and—”

“It’s quite all right, Jeyne,” Sansa interrupts. “It is not proper for my husband to be here with me anyways, not now. And the King has had four healthy, trueborn children; perhaps his customary hunt is good luck.”

“Damn him,” she hears her father mutter under his breath. “Damn him.”

Sansa sighs and rests her head against the pillows arranged behind her. She thanks the gods for making her husband so pathetically predictable. She’s sure the moment the party passed the castle walls, perhaps even before, he had called out for a skin of wine. _And I’m sure Jaime was more than happy to obey his command._

The smirk threatening to form on her lips dies when another agonizing spasm strikes. “Shit,” she curses, before she can restrain herself. A blush immediately blooms on her cheeks and only worsens when she realizes Arya is trying and failing not to laugh.

“Curse away, sweet sister,” Arya chuckles. “There’s a babe coming out of you. If there were ever a time, right?”

Sansa doesn’t curse again, but the vile words are on the tip of her tongue every time the pain strikes. She was supposed to feel instant relief upon learning Robert had left the Red Keep. She was supposed to feel lighter, like the weight of him had finally been removed from her shoulders. She was supposed to feel free. She was supposed to subtly smile and bide her time until the news of his demise inevitably worked its way back to the castle. Instead, she feels sick and scared and guilty. Her mind is buzzing, her heart is racing, and her palms are cold and clammy underneath her father’s and Arya’s hands.

The hours seem to crawl by. The increasing weariness in her companions’ eyes and the mounting pain and exhaustion assaulting her body mark their passing, but Sansa has no idea just how much time has really passed. The windows are drawn and the candles around them lit. It is supposed to make for a more peaceful birthing experience, but Sansa wishes they would throw open the drapes instead, so she could properly judge whether it’s still day. _Why haven’t we heard anything yet?_ Had Jaime already boarded a ship bound for Braavos or Pentos or Myr? Had her husband succumbed to the poison in his wine, and the people of her court are just too afraid to inform her while she lay in the birthing bed? Was she now a widowed queen?

She realizes then that this child will never know his or her father and that young Rickard will recall little if anything about him. She wonders if her children will call her next husband—an unfortunate inevitability she has decided, for she is still very young and surely the people will not suffer their Queen Regent remaining unmarried for long—father. She wonders if her children will sit by her feet, clinging to her skirts and demanding stories of their heroic, fallen father, the man who was once a king. She suspects it will rankle at first, to talk of Robert Baratheon as anything but cruel, but perhaps it will grow easier with time to concoct great tales of what a wonderful man he had been. Sansa has always had an excellent imagination, after all.

Pain tears her back out of her thoughts. She tries to bury her face into the pillows to smother the truly unladylike screams she is allowing to echo off the walls of the bedchamber. She doesn’t recall it all hurting so awfully when Rickard was born. And when she looks blearily down at Pycelle to discover his gray, wrinkled hands are covered in blood, she realizes she doesn’t recall that either.

_Is something wrong?_ She wants to ask, but she groans loudly instead. _Is something wrong?_ She can’t form the words, and her vision is too blurry to make out the looks on anyone’s faces. They’re all speaking to her, saying something she can’t quite comprehend in a tone she can’t quite judge. Are they worried? Are they frightened? It sounds like they’ve all been submerged underwater. _Is something wrong?_ She tries to squeeze Arya’s hand, but her grip has suddenly gone limp.

She feels a soft hand on her face, but her eyes flutter shut before she can see whom it belongs to. They’re all calling out to her, maybe even shouting at her, but all she can hear is, _your fault, your fault, your fault._

Something is wrong. She can feel it. And it’s her fault.

_Only death may pay for life._ She remembers Old Nan saying those words during one of her scary stories. How strange and how fitting they should come back to her now, on a day when a life will be stolen and another life gained. This particular story had been about a man, a good and just man, the kind of man Sansa now feared only existed in stories. The man loves his wife more than anything in the world. It breaks his heart to leave her behind when he goes off to war, but he must do his duty. They, the man and his wife, write each other letters every day while he is away, declaring their love and praying for the day they can see each other again. When his wife’s ravens suddenly stop coming, the man abandons the war to seek her out, only to find that his cruel, jealous brother has murdered her because she refused to love him instead.

Sansa wept bitter tears at that part and pleaded with Old Nan to say it had all been just a nightmare. Old Nan shook her head, as she moved on to second part of the story. The man travels the world, praying to ancient gods and new gods and gods Sansa had never even heard of to bring his wife back to him. It is only when he returns home and prays to the heart tree that his prayers are finally answered. _Only death may pay for life_ , the wind whispers to him. Old Nan had whispered the line herself, trying to sound like the wind, and Sansa had shuddered.

The man buries his wife’s bones at the base of the heart tree and then summons his brother, claiming all has been forgiven. When his brother arrives, the man brings him before the heart tree and slashes a dagger across the brother’s throat, spilling the red, red blood across the snow and onto the blessed roots. _Only death may pay for life._ The man’s wife emerges from the ground then, a frightening, unrecognizable creature still smelling of death and blood and fear. When she wraps her arms around her husband, her sharp, severed bones cut into his skin, digging deeper and deeper the tighter she holds to him. He can’t stomach the creature his once sweet and beautiful wife has become, so he stabs her as well, and they collapse against the heart tree together, forever entwined in their deaths. _Only death may for life, but even then what kind of life will it be?_ Old Nan had concluded her gruesome tale with that question. Bran and Arya had looked pleased, but Sansa remembers feeling sick over the injustice of it all.

If only death can pay life, can only life pay for death? Sansa wonders if that’s why the babe is coming now, too early. She wonders if the gods are trying to balance the scales by pushing this new life into the world, as her husband’s life is stolen with poisoned wine. _But even then what kind of life will it be?_ What if her plan is exposed? What if they kill her and deny her son? What kind of life will her babes have then?

She was supposed to feel relieved and happy and free the day Robert died. Instead, she only feels guilty and scared and wrong. Instead, she keeps seeing herself kneeling before the heart tree, all sharp, dirty bones, holding tightly to her babes. But the tighter she holds to them, the more of their blood she spills into the snow.

There is so much pain, and her head feels heavy with her own thoughts. _Just go away, Sansa. Just go away inside, like you always do._ She knows she shouldn’t, but she begins to retreat behind the walls she built while Robert was grunting and cursing and thrusting. She closes her eyes and imagines she is back in Winterfell, staring out the window as Father spars with Robb and Jon, instead of trapped in a bloody birthing bed. She’s happy instead of terrified. She’s safe instead of wracked with pain. Distantly, she hears someone screaming her name, pleading with her to stay with them. She knows she ought to try harder, to fight through the pain, but the safety of the walls is calling to her, and she collapses and curls up into the comfort they offer.

The pain subsides abruptly when she dips her feet into the cool waters of the pool. The water is clean and clear and the hot, mid-afternoon is shining down on her, warming her pale, freckled skin. She isn’t sure why she has left Winterfell. She’s never been to this place before, but she already likes it.

“After a year here, you’d think your Northron skin would finally darken, but you still look like an ice princess. A _stunning_ ice princess.”

The voice is playful, teasing. It’s a deep voice, a man’s voice. She lifts her head to see Jaime Lannister grinning back at her from across the pool with that lopsided, cocksure grin of his, all perfect gleaming white teeth and soft lips. The sun is reflecting off the drops of water running down his bare chest. She’s struck by the urge to drag her hands over that chest, from where the water ends at his hips up to the sharp rides of his shoulders.

“Come in, my love. The water is warm, and I really must touch you.”

_My love._ The endearment make her heart flutter, but not as much as the way his green eyes rake over her, starting at her submerged toes and ending with her eyes and the auburn hair cascading over one of her shoulders. She knows he means it by the way he is looking at her, like she is something to be worshipped and treasured instead of ignored and abused.

“Where are we?” Her voice sounds faraway, echoing strangely in her head.

Jaime’s brow creases. “We’ve been in Lys for near a year now, my love,” he answers. “Don’t you remember running away with me? Leaving Westeros behind? Instead of killing Robert, we decided to run away.”

She feels herself blushing when he calls her _his love_ for a second time and glances down at her feet to avoid his gaze. It’s then she notices she is not wearing one of her intricate Southron dresses or even one of her plain, practical Northron ones. Instead, she is swathed in a gloriously blue fabric sheer enough to reveal every part of her body to Jaime’s eyes. There is not nearly enough cloth for it to be called a dress, and she really ought to be embarrassed by the indecency of it all, but she finds she has never felt freer. She runs her hands over it, and it feels as soft as water under her palms.

“Still not used to the Lyseni fashion?” Jaime chuckles. “It’s a shame. The colors suit you. And the lack of cloth, of course.”

Sansa blushes deeper when she sees how he’s looking at her, like he is barely managing to restrain himself from ripping the flimsy fabric from her body. He is not the first man to look at her in such a way. Since she left Winterfell, she has felt the hungry gazes of men following her, leaving her feeling naked and vulnerable beneath them. But there is something softer in the way Jaime looks at her now, something beautiful in it that makes her heart race.

She pulls the dress over head to find she is wearing nothing underneath. The way Jaime’s eyes widen, the way his mouth goes slack and the muscles of his body tense at the simple action makes her feel like the most powerful woman in the world. “Well, you said you wanted to touch me, didn’t you? So touch me,” she challenges, as she wades deeper into the pool.

He moves forward to meet her. As soon as she’s within arm’s length, he pulls her into him, pressing her breasts against his chest and burying his face in her hair. “We’re safe here,” he whispers, before pressing a kiss to the shell of her ear. “I’ll always keep you safe.”

“I know.”

One of his fingertips trails delicately down the length of her spine until his palm flattens against the small of her back. He presses soft, wet kisses along her collarbone and the ridge of her shoulder. “Gods, you’re so easy to love,” he sighs. “You were to made to be loved.”

“And you love me?” She had meant for it to be a statement, but it leaves her lips soft and insecure, a plea for reassurance.

“I love you more than anything.”

She wants his hands to run over every part of her then, to press into her and convince her this is real, that there is really nothing standing between them anymore—not the ghost of Cersei, not King Robert, not the crown she wears. She wants to kiss every inch of his skin until there is no part of him left that has not been claimed by her lips. She _wants_ him and his love and this remote, Lyseni hideaway they have made their home. She closes her eyes and buries her face in the crook of his neck, trying to breathe him in, but all she smells is snow.

The soft pull of a brush through her hair catches her by surprise. A hand sweeps over her neck, pulling back her hair with it. It’s a nurturing touch, markedly different from Jaime’s heated, reverent touches of only a moment ago. When she blinks open her eyes, she is staring into a mirror, her mother standing behind her with a contented smile on her face. “You have the most beautiful hair, my love,” she says. “People always went on and on about my hair, but yours is brighter, richer. Every man who looks upon this hair will find himself quite in love with you, I think.”

Sansa feels herself glowing at the compliment. _Sansa has been a lady since she was three_ , she recalls her mother laughing to Lady Cerwyn when their family visited Winterfell. It had made Sansa smile. She has yearned for her mother’s approval for as long as she can remember, has wanted to move across the castle with the same effortless regality, to smile the same graceful smile, and command the same respect.

Her mother is twisting parts of her hair into flawless, intricate braids as she speaks. “Don’t look so frightened, my love. There’s no need for it. Jon Umber is a good boy. He will be kind to you, and you will be just a week’s ride from Winterfell. We will never be without each other for long.”

It has been so long since she has seen her mother—since her dreadful wedding to King Robert—but she is talking as if they have never been apart. And when she looks into the mirror, she hardly recognizes the girl staring back at her. She looks younger and more radiant, not worn or tired at all. She’s wearing a pale blue dress embroidered with lovely silver thread that seems to sparkle in the torchlight. Sansa prefers it to the white and gold ensemble she had to be shoved and tied into for her wedding to the King. _Is this real? Has this all just been a terrible dream?_

“Does—does he love me?”

Her mother smiles into the mirror. “I have never seen a boy more in love,” she chuckles. “You have him captivated, my dear. It was near a year before your father first looked at me the way Jon Umber looks at you.”

She feels any apprehensions she has flood out of her body at the idea she and this husband-to-be of hers could be anything like Father and Mother. It all comes back to her—the way they’d grasp each other’s hands under the table at dinner or the way her father would press kisses to her mother’s lips every time he left Winterfell, even if only for a few hours. The kisses were always as innocent as they were adoring. Sansa had once thought she wanted a beautiful Southron knight to rescue her in some grand fashion, to sweep her off her feet and dramatically declare her a Queen of Love and Beauty. But she realizes now that those secret touches and gentle kisses, the respect her parents have for each other, _that_ is all she has ever really wanted.

“It’s time to go now,” her mother says softly, pulling Sansa up from the chair. “Don’t be afraid, my love. I’m with you. I’ll always be with you.”

Sansa smiles her best smile, hoping it conveys everything she wants to say to her mother, hoping it expresses all of the feelings she can’t even begin to articulate. Her mother grasps her hands and leads her away from the mirror. But when she passes through the door, Sansa doesn’t step out into the familiar halls from her childhood. She finds herself outside in front of the crypts, dressed in a heavy black gown, snowflakes shimmering against the dark wool like diamonds. Someone is singing. It’s a slow, mournful tune. The singer has lost someone dear to her; Sansa knows it even if she doesn’t understand the words. It’s the kind of the song that breaks your heart in the most exquisite way.

It is no longer her mother’s hand holding hers. The stranger’s hand is too small and too cold. “Welcome home,” the strange woman with the lovely voice next to her whispers. “Do you want to go inside?”

Sansa stares carefully at her new companion’s face. The stranger appears a bit younger than herself, but she seems older at the same time, and Sansa thinks she might be the most beautiful woman she has ever seen. The contrast of her pale skin against the sharp, raven black of her hair is nearly as unsettling as it is breathtaking to look upon. “Who are you?”

The woman laughs and her familiar gray eyes twinkle in the dying sunlight. “Oh, Sansa. Don’t you know who I am?” Her voice cuts through the air like ice, but somehow still sounds like music to Sansa’s ears. Even when she smiles, there’s still a proud sort of sadness in the woman’s eyes that makes Sansa’s heart ache. Vibrant winter roses are woven through her dark hair and around her neck. She’s wearing a dress the same brilliant color of the roses, but the hem is soaked with dark, dried blood.

“Lyanna,” she whispers without thinking.

Lyanna nods and slowly leads Sansa down into the crypts. She had been terrified of the crypts as a girl, afraid the ghosts of her ancestors would reveal themselves to her, or even worse, reject her presence there entirely. She doesn’t look like a Stark, and she has never felt like a wolf. The crypts, lined with the stoic men and women of Winterfell’s past and their solemn faces, always felt like a foreign land to her. But, as she walks through the halls at Lyanna’s side, it feels oddly like she’s returned home.

“Why am I here?”

“You are rushing the sands of time, my dear,” she answers. “I’m here to rectify that. Fate has spoken, and I take fate very seriously.”

“I—I don’t understand.”

They are descending deeper and deeper into the darkness. Neither of them is holding a torch to light the way, but somehow Sansa can see everything around her—the solemn faces, the iron swords, the names carved into stone.

“You’ve come too early.”

“Too early for what?”

Lyanna doesn’t answer. Instead, she stops abruptly and motions one of her delicate white hands toward the wall. Sansa nearly screams when she turns to find herself staring back at her. This Sansa is made of stone, lifting the skirt of her billowing dress and thrusting forward a torch with the other. This Sansa’s jaw is set in a hard line. Her head is held high and her back is straight as Valyrian steel. She looks strong and imposing and confident and a hundred other things Sansa never imagined she could be. Her eyes take in every detail etched into the stone, traveling from the crown on her head to the words carved beneath her feet.

_Sansa Stark_  
The Winter Queen  
286 AL – 350 AL

“The Winter Queen?”

“Yes, the Winter Queen,” Lyanna says. “That’s what they’ll call you, in the North at least. You will live and rule and die in the South, but you will be buried in the North. And hundreds of years after your death, Northmen will still whisper your name in times of war and in times of peace. They will raise their glasses to your ghost and speak of the Queen from Winterfell who danced with the dragons in the South and fought back when death itself invaded the North. They’ll toast to you and name their daughters after the Queen who was made of ice.”

She shivers and thinks of Jaime’s hands, smooth and hot against her skin. She thinks of the heat pooling in her belly and the sun against her back. She thinks of the peace she felt in the water with him, far away from the prying eyes and vicious whispers of the Red Keep. She thinks of how light she felt without a crown on her head. “But what if I don’t want to be ice?” she asks. “What if what I need is fire?”

“Fire warms and soothes the aches of winter, and, yes, it can burn in the most wonderful way,” Lyanna says wistfully, running her free hand over one of the roses in her hair. “But ice _preserves_. The world needs both, Sansa, or else it all falls apart.”

“What will fall apart?”

“ _All of it._ ”

She gently grasps Sansa’s face and directs her to look up at the stone statue standing beside her own. It takes her only a moment to realize this one is Arya, eyes narrowed and mouth snarling, a sword in her hand. She looks dangerous and terrifying and beautiful.

_Arya Stark_  
The Shadow  
289 AL – 338 AL

  
“The Shadow?"

“Her enemies name her that,” Lyanna laughs. “But she likes it so much, she asks to have the epithet made permanent on her deathbed.”

There is a dagger resting on statue’s platform, at Arya’s bare feet. It is the strangest dagger Sansa has ever seen. It is as bright as Valyrian steel with a gleaming, winter rose carved into its silver hilt. “A parting gift forged by the man who loved her, even in death,” Lyanna explains. “They’re all here, your siblings. The wolves of Winterfell.”

Sansa soon sees it’s the truth. They are all standing side by side— _Robb the Young Wolf, Bran the Builder_ , and even Rickon, sweet, baby Rickon, now a grown man made immortal in stone as _Rickon the Fierce._

“Where’s Jon? Where’s Jon Snow?”

A smile forms on Lyanna’s lips. Her skin is ghostly white, the color of freshly fallen snow, but she seems warmer and more alive at the mention of Sansa’s half-brother. “My Jon, my prince, is buried elsewhere,” is all she says.

Sansa doesn’t have much time to consider why Jon Snow would be hers or a prince before Lyanna is pulling her away again. It never crosses her mind to ask where they’re going, to question any of this. “You have a destiny, Sansa. You all do. I chose love over duty, and the kingdom bled. You will make a different choice.”

“But I killed Robert. I killed my husband, my King. I’ve already failed.”

Lyanna shakes her head. “Robert died a long time ago.” They emerge from the crypts, and Sansa’s chest tightens at the sight of Winterfell’s walls in front of her. “Can we go inside?”

“I can’t. This is my home now.”

Sansa looks back toward the crypts. “It’s not such a bad place to call home.”

“No, but it’s not yet your time, my love. I’m here to bring you back.”

“Bring me back where?”

She blinks and it’s gone—Winterfell, the crypts, Lyanna and her sad, gray eyes. She looks for Jaime and his crooked smile, she looks for her mother, but she can only see blurry faces crowded around her. It takes a moment for all of them to come into focus—Jeyne sobbing and shaking violently, Arya holding one of Sansa’s limp hands to her chest and screaming at her to wake up, her father quietly crying and pacing on the other side of her. And then there’s Maester Pycelle, crouched at the end of her bed, hands dripping with blood.

Pycelle shouts at her to _push_ , over and over and over again. Sansa is having difficulty even breathing, but somewhere inside of her, she finds the strength to give one, strong push.

Pycelle stands up with a bloody, dark-haired babe in his arms. She wants to reach her arms out to hold the child, but they remain limp and useless at her sides. Instead, she squints her eyes, wanting to commit every part of her newborn babe to memory. _It’s a girl_ , she discovers, as Pycelle wipes away some of the blood coating the babe’s skin. _My daughter._ The thought of having a daughter had terrified her once, but now she can only feel joy at the prospect of running a comb through her daughter’s dark hair and sharing with her the same wisdoms her mother passed down to her.

When the babe finally blinks her eyes open, Sansa gasps. They are not the expected midnight blue of Robert’s other children. They are the same slate gray as her father’s eyes and Arya’s and Jon Snow’s and Lyanna’s. They are _Stark_ gray. She feels triumphant. She feels like the wolf she is supposed to be, because her blood, her Stark blood, has beaten Robert’s.

Darkness begins to creep in at the corners of her eyes. She tries to blink it away, so she can keep staring at her daughter’s perfect eyes, but she seems powerless to stop its progress. _I’m dying._ She has come so far and endured so much for this moment, to feel strong and be free of Robert. Now that it has finally arrived, she is going to die before she ever really sees it.

She sinks her bare feet into the white, bloodstained silk sheets, trying to keep herself grounded in this moment, in this life. But when she looks down, she is walking through the snow again, Winterfell standing tall in the distance. The icy cold from the snow seeps in through the soles of her bare feet and courses through the veins in her legs.

Her mother’s voice begins to sing out with Lyanna’s in her mind. It’s a lullaby from her childhood sung in a melody so beautiful Sansa wants to weep at the sound of it. All of the kind words she has never thought to offer her sister come to her suddenly and buzz through her mind along with the chorus of the lullaby. All of the words she should have said to Rickard and Father and Mother and Robb and Bran and Rickon and Jon Snow and Jeyne Poole before she started this plot soon join them. The cold, snow-covered land around her is eerily silent, but the world in Sansa’s mind is alive with music and regret.

Then she feels the moisture hit her face. _Am I weeping?_ But it is snowflakes not teardrops caressing her skin. As the flakes melt and run down her cheeks, over her chapped lips, and into her parched mouth, she imagines she is crying.

The touch of another’s skin against her own, warm and alive, would have made her jolt if she still possessed the strength. Arya is holding on tightly to her, and the sight of their hands entwined eases some of the aching in her chest. And the tears that are not really tears running down her face banish the screaming and worry and panic in Sansa’s mind until all she can hear is her mother’s lullaby.

The world is spinning, and she can feel death easing her body away from Arya’s toward Winterfell and Lyanna and the statues that now may never come to be. She would give anything for the strength to grip Arya’s hand, to let her know how much she loves her and to say one last goodbye. But the touch of her skin is enough. Maybe she will never have Jaime’s love, and she will never see her mother again, and she will never help her siblings save Westeros, and she will never be the Winter Queen… but as the darkness grips her, she thinks this room, surrounded by her sister and father and best friend and daughter, is not such a bad place to die.

She plants her feet in the snow, remaining completely still. She looks at Winterfell but is too afraid to move forward. Then she looks over her shoulder at Arya but is afraid she’s too weak to turn back now.

She looks up at the dark sky instead. Old Nan’s words ring out through the crisp air, as if they are coming from the stars themselves. _Only death may pay for life._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up is Ned again. I have part the chapter already written, so it hopefully won't take me as long to post as it did this time. And for anyone who was hoping for an Arya POV, I promise she's next after Ned. I've been saving her for something.
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	8. Eddard II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is Sansa who brought love into the world with her and lived her life by its code, aspiring to its greatness and believing in its perfection, in its ability to inspire heroes and build empires and defeat monsters. Trapping such a child in a marriage devoid of love seems so unspeakably cruel to him now. He can’t help but wonder if it were a brave and gentle knight who worshipped his daughter as she was made to be waiting for her instead of Robert, if she would be fighting harder, if she would have already found the strength to return.

There is blood everywhere. It soaks the white sheets of his daughter’s bed and the skirt of her pale gray night shift. It soaks the front of Maester Pycelle’s robes and his withered hands and the rags now piled up on the table by his side. It has started to leak from the bed, forming small puddles on the stone floor, and clouds the basins of water surrounding them.

With all that blood, it is wonder she is still breathing. For though she looks like death, skin pale as freshly fallen Northron snows and eyes dark as shadows, he knows she’s still breathing. He has kept his ear above her mouth and his hand over her heart since the babe was born to be certain of it. But with every passing moment, her breathing grows less steady and her skin more drained, and it seems there is nothing he can do to stop it.

“Help her!” He knows he must be screaming by the way Arya and Master Pycelle flinch, but he can barely hear his own voice over the pounding of his heart and rushing of blood in his ears. “Help her! Do something! What’s happening? What isn’t she waking up?”

Pycelle chooses not to answer him before he disappears back behind the cape of Sansa’s bloody skirts and calls out for another basin of water and more rags. Arya, on the other side of the bed, is still holding firmly to Sansa’s limp hand, her gray eyes flitting between Sansa’s ashen face and the blood. Her jaw is tight and her chin trembling slightly, but she remains still and solid, unlike Jeyne Poole. The girl is shaking violently by the door, her arms hugged around her stomach and her bloodshot eyes focused resolutely on her own feet. Ned knows the poor child must be sickened by all the blood and terrified of what it means for her Queen, for her oldest and dearest friend.

He looks away from the girl and tries to think of nothing else but Sansa’s breathing and the comforting _thump-thump_ of her heart. If his mind goes anywhere else, he fears he will not be able to remain strong for his sweet Sansa much longer. “You’re going to be fine,” he whispers to her, praying that somehow she can hear him. “I won’t let anything happen to you. Not anymore. I promise you.”

At that moment, the sharp wail of the babe from the other room crashes into him and seems to knock the breath right out of his body. He squeezes his eyes shut tight and tries to ignore the noise, tries not to remember the last time he heard such a cry while surrounded by so much blood, while looking into a face as pale as Sansa’s.

_Promise me, Ned. Promise me._

Lyanna flashes across the inside of his eyelids—her skin is as white as the sheets underneath her and her lips as blue as the roses woven through her hair. The babe resting on her chest is screaming bloody murder, its hands clenched into tiny, bloody fists around the thin fabric of his mother’s shift. “No, please,” he sobs, “No, please not again. Not again.”

“Father?” Arya’s voice sounds small, almost frail, like it doesn’t belong to her. “Is Sansa—? She’s still breathing, right?”

Ned remembers when Lyanna's grip on his hand went limp. He remembers resting his hand across his sister’s chest and pressing his fingers against her neck to find no pulse there, no sign of life at all. Arya is watching him closely, waiting anxiously for an answer. It is slow, but Sansa’s pulse is still there. He opens his mouth to tell her that, but the words stick in his throat. All he can see is her fierce, gray eyes staring back at him and her wild, raven hair hanging messily around her face. The sight seizes him with fear. For a moment, he almost thinks he can see the blood on her hands and the roses in her hair.

_Promise me, Ned._

“What’s going on?” Jeyne shrieks. “Why aren’t you answering her? Is—no, she’s not, please just says she’s not—”

“The Queen is still alive,” Pycelle huffs, and Ned doesn’t miss the glare the maester shoots him. “So stop your godsforsaken weeping, girl.”

“What are doing for her? What are you doing to _keep_ my sister alive?” Arya demands. Even her voice sounds the same to him—the desperate but powerful tone, the sweet, almost musical quality of the words.

_Promise me, Ned._

“Leave the room, Arya, _now_ , if you would, please,” he gently commands his daughter. He keeps his voice low so as no to startle her but fierce enough to show he’s serious. “Wait in the other room with the babe, both of you, please.”

Arya narrows her eyes and practically growls in response. “ _What_? I can’t _leave_ her! She grabbed my hand! She grabbed my hand! She’s trying to get back to us. I can’t just let her go when she’s trying to—”

“Arya, it was not a request.”

“You don’t understand!” Arya cries out, holding Sansa’s hand to her chest, as if Sansa will fall if she lets go. “She’s trying to find her way back to us. If I’m not holding her hand, she might not know which way to go. I _can’t_ leave her. Why are you making me leave?”

The tears streaming down his daughter’s cheeks fill him with guilt. He tries to convince himself he’s asking her to leave for her own good. If Sansa does perish in a bed of blood, he knows well enough that the memory of the life fading from her sister’s body, the memory of her sister’s skin turning cold and blue will haunt Arya until the end of her days. But that is not the true reason he is so desperate to have her in the next room. It is her eyes, it is her hair, it is her voice—they are all an inescapable reminder that he has allowed this all to happen before.

“Jeyne, please, help Arya—”

“I don’t need to be _helped_ anywhere! It’s Sansa who needs the help!”

Pycelle suddenly springs up at the end of the bed, looking somehow taller than he ever has before. “I am trying to save the Queen’s _life_!” he roars, and it doesn’t seem possible for such a powerful voice to come from such a frail man. “And I will not be able to do so if I’m not able to hear myself think! The less extraneous people in this room at the moment, the better. So, Lady Arya, if you would kindly heed your father’s wishes and wait in the other room with the babe, I might just be able to help your sister find her way back to us or whatever the hell nonsense you were just trying to say.”

Arya tenses and opens her mouth, as if to argue, but she says nothing. When Jeyne quietly grasps Arya’s free hand, she lets herself be dragged away, reluctantly leaving Sansa’s hand hanging open on the edge of the bed. The sight of that hand, white and empty, makes Ned’s stomach clench, but when the doors close behind them, he takes a deep breath, able to focus solely on Sansa again until—

“ _Lyanna_.”

He would be certain he imagined the whisper and the slight parting of his daughter’s lips if not for the way Pycelle stands up again and stares at Sansa. “What did she say?”

“I—I’m not—”

“Lyanna, help. Please, _Lyanna_.”

The gods are punishing him, he’s sure of it now, and they clearly want him to know it. They are punishing him for being a poor brother, a poor father, a poor husband, a poor Hand of the King. They are punishing him for having allowed history to repeat itself. Why else would Lyanna’s name be on Sansa’s dying lips?

_It is not in Robert’s nature to be a good husband, Ned._

Robert had already come to him once demanding a Stark bride before he asked for his daughter’s hand. He knew even then that Lyanna’s concerns about the match were not completely unfounded. Robert loved women, craved their attentions and affirmations and their bodies. Robert loved blood and war and the thrill of a hunt, and it left him restless and unsatisfied, always wanting more. But Lyanna knew only that much of him. She could not have known Robert the way Ned did. She didn’t understand him the way Ned did. She didn’t know how Robert had wept the night he learned of his father and mother’s deaths. She didn’t know how Robert had covered for Ned when he lost Lord Arryn’s favorite dagger on a hunt. She didn’t know how Robert tried to teach him how to talk to girls, so he could win the heart of the fair Ashara Dayne. She didn’t know how Robert sat silently for an entire night by Ned’s side, as he wept for his lost father and brother, for his kidnapped sister, and for the younger brother left abandoned in Winterfell.

It is those moments that persuaded him not to run away with Sansa the night Robert asked for her hand. It is those moments that made Ned believe that even though it might not have been in his nature, Robert could craft himself into a good husband for the sake of his daughter, for the sake of his closest friend.

_It is not in Robert’s nature to be a good husband, Ned._

There’s a blank expression on his daughter’s face, serene and lifeless. It sickens him to realize that it is not so different from the one she wears during her waking hours, as she glides through the Red Keep with a crown on her head and a gaggle of followers pecking at her heels. He should have run away with her. He knows that now. It has never been easy to say no to Robert Baratheon, and it is even more difficult when he wears a crown, but he should have found a way. The gods were testing him that night, seeing if he had learned from the tragedy of his sister’s short life, and he failed them again.

He has failed the ones he loves the most in so many ways. He has failed his beloved wife by denying her the truth. He has failed the nephew he has tried to think of as his own son for so many years but has never quite managed to, not when there is so much of Lyanna in the boy, in his sad eyes and kind heart. He has failed the children he swore to protect the moment they emerged into the world as tiny, delicate creatures. He knows he has failed them, as one clings to life in his arms and another accepts he will never walk again and another grows up not even remembering his father’s face.

Tears break free from his eyes, falling in angry torrents down his face. Everything he has done, he has done was to protect them, but it does not make the failure sting any less.

_Promise me, Ned._

The sickly sweet scent of blood and roses fills his nose and makes him retch. When he opens his eyes, he half expects to find Lyanna pressing a gray-eyed babe into his arms and making him promise. He kept her promise, but at what cost?

“I’m sorry,” he chokes out, cupping her beautiful face, her mother’s face. “I’ll make it all right. I swear it. Just come back to me, Sansa. Can you hear me, love? You need to come back to us.”

“I’ve done all I can for her.”

“What does that mean?” His stomach twists again, and he has to fight against the urge to cover his ears before Pycelle answers.

“I’ve stopped the bleeding, but I can’t replace the blood she’s already lost, and she’s lost a lot of it. There’s nothing more I can do for her. Now we must wait and—”

“We can’t just wait!” he shouts, rising from his knees to loom over the elderly man. “Surely there is something more that can be done! This is what the Citadel sends the King for his Grand Maester? A man who will give up on his Queen in her time of need?”

Ned towers over Pycelle, but the maester doesn’t shy away from him, just juts out his chin and crosses his blood-soaked arms defensively in front of his chest. “She’s still alive, Lord Stark, which I believe proves exactly why I was chosen for this position. Her breathing may be shallow, but her pulse is strong. That is a good sign. But, as I said before, she has lost a lot of blood, and all we can do now is wait and see if she wakes. I will make no promises on if that is likely to occur.”

“This is your _Queen_ —"

“And I have done everything in my power to see that she survives this.”

“Just as you did with her predecessor, I suspect,” Ned sneers, immediately shocked by the uncommon cruelty in his tone.

Pycelle’s face contorts at the thinly veiled accusation, but it is with sorrow rather than anger this time. His arms fall limply to his sides, and he backs away from Ned. “Yes, just as I did with the Queen before her,” he answers. He sighs and wets a fresh cloth to run over Sansa’s forehead. “Call for another maester, if that’s what you wish. But he will only tell you the same. I have done everything I can.”

The old man leans over Sansa and spoons milk of poppy into her mouth. “For the pain,” he mumbles. “There must be a great deal of pain.” There is a shaky quality to his voice that scares Ned even more than his daughter’s pallid complexion or her cold hands or her shadowy eyes. Pycelle is telling him the truth, and he knows it even if he struggles to accept it. There is nothing any of them can do for Sansa but wait.

He remembers Catelyn holding vigil by Bran’s beside after his fall. He remembers her weeping into the pillows by his head and combing his hair and telling him stories, refusing sleep and food and drink until he opened his eyes again. _It’s not fair. This isn’t fair._ They are not perfect, but he likes to think that he and his wife are good people, honorable people. Sansa’s death would destroy Cat, as Bran’s accident almost had. It will haunt her that she was not there for her daughter as she clung to life. It will kill her that she never got to say goodbye, and that scares him almost as much as losing Sansa does.

He has never been one for prayer. He will kneel before the heart tree in Winterfell’s godswood and feel the power of the old gods surging from the thick branches, but he has never been certain of how he should speak to them. But if there was ever a time to pray, he knows it is now. _Please don’t take her yet._ They are so far from the old gods here in King’s Landing, but he believes somehow they can still hear him and that they can help his daughter find her way back to him. _I’ll fix what I’ve done, just don’t take her away from me and Cat. There is so much left for her._

Sansa is his babe born of love. It is when he saw his perfect, blue-eyed daughter swathed in white cloth and suckling from her mother’s breast that he knew he was in love with his wife. And it was when Cat looked up and beamed at him that he knew she felt the same way. It is Sansa who finally brought them together, who stitched up the wounds and quieted the ghosts that kept them apart. It is Sansa who brought love into the world with her and lived her life by its code, aspiring to its greatness and believing in its perfection, in its ability to inspire heroes and build empires and defeat monsters. Trapping such a child in a marriage devoid of love seems so unspeakably cruel to him now. He can’t help but wonder if it were a brave and gentle knight who worshipped his daughter as she was made to be waiting for her instead of Robert, if she would be fighting harder, if she would have already found the strength to return.

“You are so loved, my sweet Sansa,” he whispers, brushing back the strands of hair clinging to the sweat on her brow. “We all love you so much.”

Ned kneels by her side again and bows his head, resting his brow against Sansa’s shoulder. Perhaps it is because he has no notion of the proper way to pray, or perhaps it is because he feels he must do _something_ to help his daughter, but he suddenly can’t stop the promises from leaving his lips. Promises have proven dangerous things, clandestine pacts that can take on a life of their own and suffocate lives under the weight of them. But they will be his prayers, and he will make as many as it takes for the gods to give him his daughter back, and he will keep every one of them—to tell Cat of the blood and the roses and his sister’s dying wish, to tell Jon he was born of passionate, reckless love and cherished by his mother until her last breath, to let Arya have her choice of suitors and her choice to forsake courteous words for a blade, to find a way for Bran to wield a lance and be the knight he once dreamed he would be, to be there to watch his wild little Rickon grow into a man, to bring the easy smiles and sweet songs back to Sansa’s lips, to make sure Robb grows into a good and compassionate Lord of Winterfell, to stand up to Robert and protect the realm from his mounting misery before it spreads through the kingdom and its people like a pestilence.

Maybe it is not logical to blame Robert for this. He could not have known getting Sansa pregnant would lead to this, but he blames him all the same. He blames him for not being the kind of husband Sansa would fight to return to. He blames him for not being on the other side of the door during the birth, for not being there to hear of his wife’s precarious state and barging in to hold her hand and tell her he loves her and plead with her to stay strong. He blames him for making Ned a promise to take care of and be a good husband to his daughter and then breaking that promise in so many ways.

He makes a promise to protect Sansa from Robert. A man who leaves his wife to bleed in the birthing bed while he drinks and cheers and spears a boar does not deserve his daughter. Ned stood outside Cat’s door, pacing and anxiously demanding information from each of the passing handmaidens, during all five of his children’s births. Maybe it should not come as such a surprise Robert does not behave the same way. He left when Rickard was born, he barely makes the effort to hide his affairs, and even more damning, he abandoned his first wife on her deathbed. Ned has never been able to forget that day, how Cersei Lannister’s sharp, wheezing breaths rang out in an appalling chorus with Robert’s grunts. He vows he will not let that be Sansa’s fate.

He continues that way for hours, furiously muttering prayers made up of vow after vow. But his words accomplish nothing, and he worries they will not be enough, that they are all coming too late.

A low moan escapes Sansa’s lips, barely audible over the sound of rain hitting the walls outside. He ceases his promises to look up and search her face for new signs of life, but she looks much the same. He lifts his hand and carefully traces the line of her jaw and the dimple in her chin. She looks painfully like her mother in that moment, pale and damp with sweat just like Cat had been after Rickon’s birth. It was the most difficult of her births, and he spent the entire day in a constant, unrelenting panic he might lose his wife. She had laughed when he confided his fear in her afterwards, claiming there was no way she could leave him and the children. But as soon as Maester Luwin said she could leave her bed, she disappeared into the Sept for nearly half a day. He followed her there and watched quietly from the door as she knelt in front of the Mother and sobbed and thanked Her for Her mercy.

“Sansa has a merciful heart,” he says, placing his hand over Sansa’s chest again. “I beg you to grant her the same mercy.” _This is how you’re supposed to pray, this is how Cat prays_ , he thinks, folding his hands together the way his wife had. “She is a mother herself, a kind and gentle mother. Please grant her mercy. Don’t make her children grow up without her. Don’t make her mother have to say goodbye to her.”

Her eyes blink open then, revealing a pair of stunning blue pools that take his breath away. “Daddy?” she whispers. One of her delicate hands rises from the bed and brushes away the tears clinging to his cheeks. “What’s wrong?”

_I thought I had lost you._ “I’m just so happy you’re awake, my love.” He turns away from her to a relieved-looking Pycelle. “Do you need—?”

“I need to get more milk of the poppy,” he sighs, wiping a veil of sweat from his forehead. “She’s going to be in pain. Just keep her talking until I get back.”

“The babe? Is my daughter okay?”

He watches Pycelle disappear through the door and then turns back to his daughter. “The babe is the most beautiful child I have seen since the day you were born, my dear Sansa,” he answers. “And perfectly healthy.”

“She has gray eyes,” Sansa mumbles. She grasps his hand weakly, and he can tell she’s fighting a losing battle to keep her eyes open. “She has gray eyes, right? I think I saw them before I—before I fell asleep.”

“Yes, she has gray eyes.” _Lyanna’s eyes._ “And a full head of black hair.”

“She’s going to look like Arya, I think.” He’s surprised when a pleased little smile stretches across Sansa’s face. “Maybe she’ll even want a sword and like getting all muddy. Arya would like that. She’d never shut up about it.”

Ned couldn’t help but smile as well. “Or maybe she’ll love singing like you. And lemoncakes and embroidery and love stories.”

“Maybe,” Sansa agrees. “Maybe she’ll like both.”

“Maybe,” he echoes. “Sansa, love, you said something while you—while you were sleeping. You said the name Lyanna. Do you know why? Were you having a dream?”

Sansa’s eyes suddenly go wide, and her grip on his hand tightens. “I—I—” she sputters, furrowing her brow. “I, well, that’s—that’s my daughter’s name. Lyanna. Lyanna Baratheon. Is that okay, Father?”

The tears build up along his eyelids and break free before he can stop them. If she did not look so fragile, he would have wrapped his arms around her then and never let go. “You want to name your daughter Lyanna?” he chokes out. “After your aunt?”

“I can tell you loved her very much,” Sansa says. “I can tell by the way you look at Arya sometimes. They say she looks just like Lyanna.”

It takes all the strength he has left to swallow down the sob building in his throat. “Yes, she is, but you’re so much like her too, Sansa. I don’t know if I’ve ever told you that. If Robert could only—” He stops, unsure of how to finish that thought and knowing it wouldn’t bring her any comfort anyways. He decides to make another promise instead. “I’ll take care of Robert. I’m going to speak with him as soon as he gets back from the hunt and make it clear that things simply can’t continue as they have been any longer. I’m going to—”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“What? No, Sansa, of course it matters. I’m going to talk to him. I’m going to take care of him. I promise you.”

A frown turns down her chapped lips, and her eyes flutter shut. “No. It’s too late. I already did.”

The words send a chill down his spine. “Sansa, what—?” _What do you mean? What are you trying to tell me?_ But Pycelle walks back in the room at that moment, carefully holding a chalice filled to the brim. “What did you hear?” he snaps at the man, suddenly panicked but not entirely sure why.

Some of the milk sloshes over the edge of the cup when the maester stops short. “Nothing, what has Her Grace said? Has she made any complaints? It’s important that I know if she’s in pain and where.”

Pycelle seems genuinely concerned, and Ned forces himself to start breathing normally again. “No, she, well, she just said that the babe’s name is Lyanna.” It’s the truth, but it feels like a lie, like he’s covering something up. “Is she going to be okay? She was talking, but she still looks so pale. Does that mean anything?”

“It’s good, that she woke, I mean,” he says, as he rests the chalice down on the table by her bed. “And her color is getting better. I’m confident now that she’ll be able to pull through this, but I’m going to need to wake her up again and examine her. You don’t need to be here for that if you want to check on the girls.”

Ned nods slowly. He digs his nails into his palms in an attempt to focus on something other than what Sansa said. “Yes, I should check on them,” he agrees, taking another deep breath. “They must be worried sick. If anything changes, send someone straight away, all right? If anything changes, anything at all, I want to be the first person who knows.”

“Of course, Lord Hand.”

When he looks down at Sansa again, he’s thankful to see some of the usual rosiness in her cheeks has returned. “She’ll want to hold the babe as soon as she’s able.”

“I’ll see to it that she does, my lord.”

“Thank you, Grand Maester. I am—I am sorry for how I behaved earlier. I don’t know how I’ll ever be able to repay you for—”

“It is my station,” Pycelle interrupts. “It is what my chain demands. There is no debt to repay, Lord Stark.”

Ned nods to him and reluctantly moves away from the bed and into the adjoining room. It doesn’t occur to him until he has closed the door that it might not be wise to leave his dazed daughter alone with the Grand Maester. Even if the man values his maester chain as much as he claims, Ned is perceptive enough to know Pycelle’s loyalties rest principally with the Lannisters. If Sansa were to say something damning under the influence of the milk of poppy, he doubts Pycelle would keep her secret as he should.

He banishes that thought with a shake of his head. _Stop thinking like that. She meant nothing by it. That’s not Sansa._

“Would you stop blubbering? She’s going to be fine. Grand Maester Stupid said so. And Sansa is strong. I’ve told you that a hundred times.”

“I know.” Jeyne sniffs and wipes her nose on the back of her sleeve. “I know she’s strong. I just wish we could see her.”

Arya and Jeyne are leaning over the edge of the babe’s crib. They are both so preoccupied with her, they have yet to notice his presence. Jeyne is still shaking, and the occasional squeak escapes her lips. But there’s a small smile on Arya’s face, as she runs a cautious hand over the downy tuft of dark hair on Lyanna’s head.

“Sansa named her Lyanna.”

Jeyne yelps and stumbles back, but Arya only looks up at him, as the smile on her face turns into a grin. “Lyanna? Really?”

“That’s what she said. Do you like it?”

“It’s perfect,” Jeyne whispers. “And Sansa is okay? She’s talking?”

Ned is touched by the genuine concern in Jeyne’s wide, brown eyes. It is a comfort to know Sansa has at least one friend who cares so deeply for her, like he once thought Robert cared for him. “Yes, she spoke to me, but she was asleep again when I left. Pycelle is checking on her now, but I’m sure he’s near done. You two can go in and see her now, if you’d like. If she’s still asleep, please don’t wake her.”

“Oh, thank the gods,” Jeyne exclaims, holding her hands to her chest. She promptly dashes away from the crib and into Sansa’s room.

Arya walks toward him instead. “I knew she’d come back. I could tell by the way she was holding my hand.”

Ned wishes he had felt the same confidence. Even now, his chest feels tight with worry, but it is at least good to hear Arya speak so kindly of her sister. If nothing else, perhaps this near tragedy will make them as close as he and Lyanna had once been, as close as he knows they could be. He reaches out his arms and wraps them around her. “Arya, I shouldn’t have made you leave the room. It wasn’t right of me, and I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” she mumbles into his chest. “I’m just happy it’s over now. It reminded me too much of what happened with Bran.” She pulls herself out of the hug and grows serious. “That’s why I didn’t want to bother you with this while Sansa was still struggling, or Maester Pycelle, but—but Ser Barristan brought word while you two were in there with Sansa.”

“Word of what?”

Arya wrings her hands together and refuses to meet his eyes. “Word of the King. Ser Barristan told me that Lord Renly sent a raven saying the King was injured on the hunt. They’re bringing him back to the Red Keep.”

“Injured? Injured how?” _No. It’s too late. I already did._

“It was a boar, apparently.”

Relief sweeps over him not for the first time that day. He has clearly misunderstood his daughter. There is no way Sansa could have had anything to do with Robert being injured by a wild boar. “Did Ser Barristan say anything about his condition? How bad is it?”

Arya responds to the question by squaring her jaw and crossing her arms. “Selmy didn’t say, but I hope it’s bad,” she declares. “I hope the stupid boar killed him. I hope I never have to see him again.” She looks straight into his eyes as she says those remorseless words, as if daring him to scold her for them.

“Arya, don’t—”

“I hope he dies,” she snaps. “He deserves it.”

_She’s just upset. It’s been an exhausting day for all of us. She doesn’t know what she’s saying._ He knows he should walk away and give her some time to calm down, but he finds himself asking, “Why? Why does he deserve it?”

“Because he hurt Sansa.” The words are firm and final and make his stomach sink to his toes. “He hurt her, and he deserves whatever he gets.” With that, she turns her back on him and marches into Sansa’s room.

He stares stupidly at the door for a moment, unsure of what exactly he is supposed to do. He is the Hand of the King. By all rights, his King’s health should be of the paramount importance to him. But the thought of leaving Sansa, even for a moment, fills him with dread.

“Lord Hand, they’re bringing the King to his chambers now,” Ser Barristan says, as he appears in the doorway. “I’m afraid he’s not doing well. He’s asking for you. He wants to get things in order, in case of the worst.”

Those words remind him where his duty must lie at this moment, with the Kingdom. _I need to get the succession in order. I need to make things right._ He has promised the gods to tell the truth, and there is a truth he must now tell Robert. “Where is Ser Jaime?”

Ser Barristan looks surprised by the question and shakes his head. “I’m sorry, I’m not sure, my lord. I imagine he’s with the party escorting King Robert to his chambers since he departed with them on the hunt this morning.”

“Ser Jaime accompanied Robert on the hunt?” His voice cracks, making him wish he had even a fraction of Sansa’s ability to mask her emotions. It is not odd that the Kingslayer joined the hunt. As one of the Kingsguard, it was probably expected he attend, but the revelation still makes Ned wonder if he has made a horrible mistake by not going to Robert with the truth straight away and for giving the Kingslayer three days to plot. “Ser Barristan, guard my daughter’s door with your life, do you understand?”

“Of course, Lord Hand. I would never allow any harm to befall the Queen.”

“Yes, thank you, Ser Barristan.” He takes a deep breath, but it does little to ease the pounding of his heart. Terror is seizing him, and it is made worse by the fact that he is not even confident what it is he’s so afraid of.

He walks to Sansa’s door and waves Maester Pycelle to his side. “I was just about to bring the babe into her mother, my lord.”

“One of the handmaidens can do that. Is Sansa all right?”

“She’s going to be fine, I think, yes—”

“Then I have need of you, Grand Maester. The King has been gravely injured.”

Even in her exhaustion, he can tell Sansa overhears him by the way her half closed eyes snap open. He looks into those wide, blue eyes and tries to ignore the hope he sees shining in them and the fact that she asks no questions about her husband’s health, only goes back to speaking with Arya and Jeyne.

_It’s madness_ , he tells himself again, her strange admission still echoing in his ears. _Even Sansa can’t charm a boar._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An Arya POV is up next. Thank you for reading!


	9. Arya II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya wishes she could convince Sansa to relax and sleep through the rest of the night. Though she has never thought much of being a lady like Sansa, of her sister’s fate to defer to a husband and worry of nothing but heirs and smiling prettily at people she thinks ridiculous or even cruel, she now understands what her father meant when he said that while ladies may not go to war, they do fight their battles in the birthing bed. The sheets have been changed and the floor scrubbed clean, but Arya can’t stop picturing the pools of blood on the floor and the white sheets soaked red underneath her sister’s feet. _You’ve just come back from war_ , Arya wants to tell her. _Even great warriors must rest and let the stitches bind their wounds._

Sansa’s hand feels small and feeble in Arya’s own, but it’s warm, so much warmer than it had been only hours ago, and that, at least, is comforting. Her sister has been drifting in and out of consciousness since she was able to briefly hold baby Lyanna to her chest. But even in her exhaustion, she still manages to blearily open her eyes every few minutes or so to ask about her daughter and demand to hold her again only for her eyes to flutter shut once more before the handmaiden can bring the babe inside.

Arya wishes she could convince Sansa to relax and sleep through the rest of the night. Though she has never thought much of being a lady like Sansa, of her sister’s fate to defer to a husband and worry of nothing but heirs and smiling prettily at people she thinks ridiculous or even cruel, she now understands what her father meant when he said that while ladies may not go to war, they do fight their battles in the birthing bed. The sheets have been changed and the floor scrubbed clean, but Arya can’t stop picturing the pools of blood on the floor and the white sheets soaked red underneath her sister’s feet. _You’ve just come back from war_ , Arya wants to tell her. _Even great warriors must rest and let the stitches bind their wounds_.

The memory of Sansa snapping awake, teeth clenched and eyes wide, as Pycelle shouts at her to push, push, _push_ is nearly as remarkable as it is terrifying. She had been deathly pale, covered in blood and sweat, but she _had_ pushed. She had squeezed Arya’s hand so hard there were now bruises across her knuckles and pushed until the babe emerged with an earsplitting cry. But Arya hadn’t looked at the babe. Her eyes had been focused solely on Sansa, on the awed little smile that spread across her face before her grip went limp and her head sunk back down against the pillows. Arya knows she will never forget that moment. She knows the panic that seized her and her certainty Sansa had perished without ever being able to hold the babe she fought so hard to bring into the world will stay with her for the rest of her life.

“I’m sorry, you know,” she whispers to Sansa. “I’m sorry I ever called you weak.” It would be better of her to say it while Sansa is awake, of course, but she’s not sure if she will be able to find the words then. These kinds of things have never been easy between her and Sansa. There were even times Arya was sure she’d rather walk over hot coals or dance around in one of Sansa’s stupid dresses than apologize to her sister or, gods forbid, admit she had been wrong. And she is sure Sansa has felt the same way. But lately, she has felt something shift between them. Lately, she has found herself developing a grudging respect for her sister’s quiet strength. She has even found herself wondering if they might be stronger if they fought together for once, instead of against each other. _Maybe all we needed was a common enemy._

She presses a palm to Sansa’s cheek. “You’re going to be okay.”

“Arya? Is that you?”

Sansa’s strained voice catches her off guard, and she abruptly takes back her hand. She expects Sansa’s blue eyes to flutter open again, but they remain closed. “Yeah, Sansa, it’s me. Are you feeling all right? Do you need a maester?”

Sansa groans and waves one of her hands in Arya’s face. “No more maesters,” she mumbles. “How is Lyanna? Is she still okay?”

Arya almost laughs and considers asking one of the handmaidens if it would be safe for Lyanna to sleep with Sansa. It seems her sister will refuse proper rest unless she can be sure of the babe’s safety at all times. “Since you last asked me not even an hour ago?” Arya teases. “Yes, Sansa, she is just fine.”

_She’s perfect_ , Arya wants to say. Rickard had been a pretty enough babe, with shocking blue eyes like his father and chubby little hands, but there is something special about Lyanna. Perhaps it is the child’s Stark looks that have left Arya so impressed, or the way she reached out and tugged at a lock of Arya’s hair when she leaned over the crib. _She’s strong. She’s going to be fierce._ And she can’t deny it gives her some pleasure Sansa has given birth to a daughter who looks so like her. It is funny and more than a little satisfying to imagine her sister praising the same dark hair and gray eyes of her daughter that she had once mocked Arya for.

“When I first learned I was pregnant again, I kept dreaming I would have a daughter who looked like you,” Sansa says. A little smile appears on Sansa’s face, and Arya can tell she’s doing her best to open her eyes but can’t quite manage it yet. “I can’t see your face, but I bet you don’t believe me. But I did, all the time. Sometimes she was a sweet little lady, but sometimes she was wild like you, getting her dresses all muddy and punching boys and begging me for a sword. I was never quite sure if those ones were dreams or nightmares.”

Arya snorts. “Did you just make a jape, sister?”

“Oh, no, I am quite serious,” Sansa insists, though the smile is giving her away. “There are few terrors I can imagine worse than my daughter wanting to wear _breeches_.”

A laugh escapes her lips. It echoes a little too loudly off the high ceiling of the chambers, but Sansa only smiles wider at the sound. “Well, breeches or no, no one will ever mistake her as anything but a Stark.”

“ _Mm_ ,” she agrees, nodding slowly. “I guess my babe was a wolf after all.”

Arya doesn’t miss Sansa’s meaning. _Your babe will be a stag not a wolf._ She isn’t sure what had inspired her to say such a thing to Sansa. She thinks maybe part of her has blamed Sansa for her being stuck in the South, so far away from Jon and Bran and the others. For as long as she can remember, Sansa’s heart has belonged to the South, to the glamour of court and gallant knights riding in tournaments and extravagant feasts. To see her retreating from those ideals only now, after they have been proven false time and time again, annoys Arya almost as much as it relieves her. “I didn’t—I shouldn’t—” The _I’m sorry_ sticks in her throat again, and she curses herself for not being able to just say it. When it comes to Sansa, if she’s not shouting at her, she never quite knows what to say.

“It was only meant as a jest,” Sansa says, feeling around the mattress for Arya’s hand. “I didn’t mean anything by it.”

“Neither did I, you know.”

“I know.” Sansa’s eyes finally open then, and the candlelight catches the stunning blue pools in all their glory. “Is Father here? Jeyne?"

_Father is with the King._ Arya decides to hold that information back for now. Until it is confirmed the King has passed, she will do her best to prevent her sister from worrying over it. “Jeyne went to fetch you some tea, the kind you like best. She thought it might help settle your stomach and let you get some real sleep. She’ll be disappointed she wasn’t hear when you woke again.”

“The tea with lemon?” When Arya nods, Sansa grins. “Yes, that will be good. I know you don’t like her, but Jeyne is a good friend.”

Arya isn’t sure if she can still dislike Jeyne Poole after the way the steward’s daughter acted today. It is not the childish names Jeyne used to call her or the way she likes to turn her nose up at Arya’s interests that inspires the majority of her resentment. It is more that Jeyne clearly sees herself as Sansa’s sister, as the sister Arya was never be able to be for her. It is more that she once thought Sansa really did prefer sweet and pretty Jeyne to her actual blood. “She was very worried about you,” Arya admits. “The blood made her sick, but she refused to leave the room until Father made us.”

“She’s a good friend,” Sansa repeats. “But I’m glad you’re the one here with me,” she adds, holding one of Arya’s hands between her palms. “You’re the one who showed me which way to go.”

The comment sends a chill down her spine. She remembers the cold she had felt coming from Sansa’s body in waves after the babe was born. She remembers closing her eyes and seeing flashes of a dark, starry sky and thick snow. She remembers leaning close to Sansa and hearing the sound of her mother’s lullaby ringing in her ears. And she remembers seeing Sansa in a dark gown, standing frighteningly still in the middle of a storm, unsure of which way to go.

But that had been her imagination, she is sure of it. She had been standing by Sansa’s bed for hours upon hours by that point, starving and exhausted. There is simply no way what she saw could be real. “Sansa, I—I don’t know… What do you mean?”

“Thank you, Arya,” is all Sansa offers in response. With that, she begins to drift off again. That is, until Jeyne enters the room with a teacup balanced in her hands and announces things are not looking well for the King.

Sansa sits upright, eyes wide as full moons and hands gripping the mattress as if she might fall. Arya thinks she could kill Jeyne for upsetting Sansa just when she was finally about to sleep. “What did you hear? What are they saying?” Jeyne startles, clearly having assumed Sansa was still asleep and struggles for an answer.

“He was injured on the hunt, remember?” Arya says. “Didn’t you hear Father—?”

“Father,” Sansa breathes, holding a hand to her chest. Suddenly, there are tears building up in the corners of Sansa’s eyes. Arya can’t imagine the tears are for Robert but doesn’t know what else could have upset her so quickly. “Jeyne, is—do you know if there is anyone outside my door at the moment?”

“Just Ser Barristan,” Jeyne answers. “Lord Stark asked him to stand guard.”

“Jeyne, would you mind—could you possibly distract him for a moment?”

“Distract him?” Jeyne frowns as if Sansa has just asked her to do something scandalous. “Distract him how?”

“Just speak with him about the King,” Sansa suggests. “Ask him questions.” Though she continues to frown, Jeyne reluctantly nods her agreement and sets the tea gently down by Sansa’s bed before she leaves the room again.

“What was that all about?”

The moment the door shuts behind Jeyne, the tears break free and begin to stream down Sansa’s face. “I—I think—I think I told Father,” she hiccups, pulling at her tangled hair. “Oh, gods, I can’t believe what I said. I'm so stupid. Maester Pycelle had given me so much milk of poppy, and I was exhausted, and I—I think I said something.”

Arya feels her body tense. She’s never quite known how to act around Sansa when she cries. “What is it you think you said?” Sansa tries to answer, but she is sobbing so violently, Arya can’t understand any of the words. “Sansa, you need to calm down,” she says gently, trying to mimic the tone Mother always uses when Sansa is upset. “I’m sure you only imagined it. And even if you did say something, I doubt Father—”

“I told him it was too late,” she wails, grabbing Arya’s shoulders. “He said he was going to take care of Robert, and I told him no, not to bother, because it was too late. I think I told him I already had taken care of it.”

Arya tries to control her face. If she shows even a hint of concern, she’s sure Sansa will spiral into a panic. “Even if you actually said that, Sansa, I doubt Father thought anything of it.” It’s not the truth. There had been fear and confusion etched into every line of her father’s face when he left Sansa’s room, but she had attributed it to Sansa’s scare and the King’s failing health. But what if he had learned the truth of Sansa’s involvement in the King’s accident? What if he was trying to decide what to do about it?

“You weren’t there, Arya,” Sansa cries. “I _know_ what I said. Damn it, I’ve been so careful. I’ve been so careful for so long. He’s going to hate me, isn’t he? He’s going to think I’m awful just like everyone else here. He’ll never forgive me. He’ll never be able to see me as his sweet daughter again. I’ve spoiled _everything_. Why did I think could do this, Arya? Why did I think I was capable of this?”

“Sansa, Father could never hate you, and you’re silly if you think he could. Just act surprised by what happens with Robert, and I’m sure he’ll forget what you said. Smile that pretty maiden’s smile of yours and—”

“Gods, Arya, I’m just so sick of _lying_.” Her hands smash into the mattress, curling into small fists around the sheets. “All I do is lie, lie, lie… And smile that ridiculous, fake smile. I lie to everyone, and I hate it.”

The sister Arya remembers from their days in Winterfell had been a dreadful liar but a very effective tattletale. _Don’t tell Sansa!_ That’s what she and Jon would always giggle when they broke the rules, which they did fairly often. But Sansa had embraced the rules whole-heartedly and was always sure to impose them upon her siblings and Jeyne and even Theon. She imposed them on herself as well, like the time she had stolen one of Jeyne’s dolls and broke down into hysterics and confessed the moment Father mentioned it. Even if Sansa wears smiles on her face more often than not, Arya is still upset with herself for not realizing sooner how much the lies must have been hurting her formerly honest-to-a-fault sister. She’s disappointed with herself for not realizing how much destroying Robert must hurt her, even if he deserves his fate.

_Maybe part of her wanted Father to know. Maybe that’s why she said what she said._ Arya holds little regard for the rules of ladyship, but being a true lady is what Sansa has always aspired to. Now she has broken nearly every important rule of being lady—to love and honor one’s husband, to obey one’s father, not to scheme and plot and try to seize power for oneself that by all rights belonged to her King. Maybe her hazy half-confession had been an attempt to honor the rules she had once clung to.

“You’re not lying to _me_ ,” Arya points out. “If no one else, you know you can at least be honest with me, right?”

Sansa allows herself a deep breath and brushes some of the tears from her eyes. “I haven’t told you everything, Arya. I haven’t even told you the half of it. I’ve behaved so badly. I’ve—I’ve dishonored my marriage in so many ways and—”

“Robert dishonored it first,” Arya hisses. “I’m not going to let you feel guilty over that awful man, all right? You deserve to be free of him.”

Sansa sniffs and nestles her head against Arya’s shoulder. “Free,” Sansa sighs. “I’ll never really be free though, will I? Especially not now. Maybe I should’ve just left Robert alone and run away. It would’ve been kinder. It would’ve been braver—”

“Sansa, stop.”

“No, Arya, think about it! I’ve trapped myself here forever. When he dies, they’ll call my son King and me Queen and expect me to rule. I’ll never leave this place again. I’ll rule in the South and die in the South, just like she said.”

“Just like who said?”

Sansa remains silent for a long moment. Only the sound of her labored breathing and quiet sniffs fill the room. “During the birth, I had a dream,” she says instead of answering the question. “I had a dream I was in Lys, I think, or somewhere in Essos. The sun was shining, and I didn’t have a crown on my head. I was free, and it was so wonderful.”

Arya has had that dream before, or a version of it. Almost every night, she dreams of wings sprouting from her shoulder blades, long and strong and the same black of Nymeria’s fur. She dreams of walking on to her balcony and flying away into the night sky. She flies and flies and flies until she touches down by one of the canals in Braavos. Syrio is always there, waiting for her, Needle balanced in his outstretched hands. Sometimes there is a boy with bright blue eyes there as well, but she tries not to think too hard on what that means.

But Braavos isn’t an option for her. It probably will never be for a daughter of Winterfell, just as Lys is not an option for Queen Sansa Baratheon. “You’ll be a great Queen, Sansa,” she says, awkwardly patting Sansa’s back. “And you’re a great mother. Maybe that will be enough."

Sansa pulls back and is about to say something when Jeyne appears in the doorway again. “Can I come back inside?” she asks, biting the corner of her lip. “Ser Barristan is just ignoring me now, and I—I’ve just been so worried about you, Sansa, and—”

“Oh, Jeyne, come here,” Sansa says, holding open her arms. Jeyne grins and sprints over, practically throwing Arya out of the way to wrap her arms around Sansa. Jeyne keeps the embrace gentle, as if Sansa might break under too much pressure. The two of them look so happy Arya can’t even find it in herself to be annoyed. “Thank you for staying with me the entire time. That was kind of you.”

At that, Jeyne begins to sob into Sansa’s shoulder, burying her face in Sansa’s thick hair and holding her just a little bit tighter. “I thought—I thought I had lost you. I couldn’t bear it, Sansa. I didn’t know what I would do. I just—I couldn’t even imagine it. I love you so much.” As hysterical as she is, Jeyne’s presence seems to calm Sansa. The tears stop flowing, and there’s even a smile threatening to bloom on her lips.

For the first time, it occurs to her that Jeyne Poole might be for Sansa what Gendry has become for her, what Jon has always been for her—the person who understands you even at your most ridiculous. She wonders if Jeyne would understand what Sansa has done to free herself, and somehow Arya thinks she might. She thinks Jeyne would do almost anything to see Sansa happy. Even if she still mutters _horseface_ under her breath sometimes, Arya doesn’t think she’ll ever be able to truly hate Jeyne again.

“I love you too, Jeyne,” Sansa says, rubbing circles over the other girl’s back. “There’s no need to cry. I’m going to be perfectly fine. Do you think I would miss your wedding?”

Jeyne blushes prettily. Arya hates how pretty they both are when they blush. It has been nearly four moons since Jory Cassel asked for Jeyne’s hand, and she hasn’t stopped blushing since. “Of course not,” she giggles. “How could I have it without you there?” Just when she thinks the two are going to launch into another round of insufferable wedding talk, Jeyne turns to look at Arya. “Oh, Arya, I forgot. One of the King’s bastards is waiting for you in the hall. Apparently, he’s been out there since the hunting party returned.”

Though she bristles at the haughty way Jeyne says _bastards_ , Arya doesn’t miss the smirk that forms on Sansa’s face. “Gendry, you mean? The tall, _handsome_ one?”

The flip her stomach performs is almost as annoying as that smirk. _Shut up_ , she almost snaps. Instead, she rolls her eyes and moves toward the door. “I’ll be right back. Don’t—”

“No, wait a moment, please,” Sansa interrupts, reaching out for her arm. “I need you and Jeyne to help me get dressed.”

“Get _dressed_?” Jeyne nearly shouts. “Have you gone mad? Sansa, you almost _died_.”

“But I’m not dead, am I?” Sansa challenges.

“Pycelle left me with strict orders that you were to stay in bed—”

“Maester Pycelle is not your Queen last I checked,” Sansa counters primly. “In fact, last I checked, _I’m_ your Queen, and I am politely asking you to help me get dressed. Though I am not above commanding it.”

Arya can’t help but laugh and wonders just how much milk of poppy Pycelle poured down her sister’s throat for her to talk like this. “You heard her.” Arya shoots Jeyne a pointed look, as she wraps her arm across Sansa’s back to help her out of bed. “Grab her a dress and a cloak, and let’s get her dressed.”

“My plain brown dress, if you would, Jeyne,” Sansa adds. “The soft one, and my darkest cloak with the fur-lined hood and my black boots. I would like to be noticed by as few people as possible.” Jeyne’s mouth is hanging open, and it’s clear she wants to argue, but she ends up only nodding and dragging her feet back out the door.

“And where exactly do you plan on going?” Arya asks when Jeyne is gone. “She’s right, you know. You really shouldn’t be getting out of bed.”

“Oh, I’m fine. I don’t feel a thing.”

_That’s because Pycelle fed you a goblet of milk of poppy._ “Is whatever you need to do worth putting yourself in danger again?”

Sansa’s face grows very serious. She seems to consider her answer for a moment before saying, “I can’t let him leave without saying goodbye.”

“ _Him_?”

She bites her bottom lip and meets Arya’s eyes. If possible, she looks even guiltier than she had when they were talking about Father. “Um,” she begins uncertainly, “I—well, um, Jaime, Ser Jaime… I need to see Jaime Lannister.”

_To say goodbye? Where is he going?_ Jeyne comes back in with a pile of clothes in her arms, muttering furiously under her breath, before Arya can ask.

“I really don’t like this,” Jeyne grumbles, as she helps Sansa step into the dress and loosely ties the laces. “What if something happens to you? I’ll be sick with guilt, Sansa. And Maester Pycelle and Lord Stark will blame me. They both asked me _personally_ to look after you. What will they think when they hear I let you go gallivanting around the Red Keep?”

“They’ll think you were dutifully following your Queen’s orders,” Arya snaps, as she fastens the onyx clasp of Sansa’s cloak. When she pulls the hood over her sister’s head, she can barely recognize her. In dark, drab colors without her auburn hair gleaming in the light, she’s hardly the same Sansa. “Well, you chose right. I don’t think anyone will give you a second look in these clothes, sister.”

“Well, yes, that’s the point, isn’t it?” Sansa takes her first real step but sways shakily on her feet and stumbles forward. If Arya and Jeyne both hadn’t reached out to grab her elbows, she might have fallen on her face.

“Oh, gods, this is just ridiculous,” Jeyne huffs. “Sansa, _please_ get back in bed.”

“Why? We’ve already come this far, haven’t we?” Sansa exclaims before taking a sip of the tea Jeyne brought her, as if that will prove she’s fine. “Now, if you two will kindly help me to the Sea Gate—”

“You realize you’re closer to your bed than the Sea Gate, yes?”

Sansa answers Arya with a withering glare. “And what happened to following your Queen’s orders? It’s really not that far—”

“What in the seven hells is going on?” The question rings out just as Margaery Tyrell bursts into the room with a frustrated Ser Barristan close at her heels.

“Your Grace, why are you out of bed?” Ser Barristan looks concerned and tries to gently guide Margaery out of his way, but she stands her ground and seems determined to have her question answered first.

“Oh, I just wished to be more comfortable, Ser Barristan. I hate to be in such a state of undress with so many visitors. I am the Queen after all,” Sansa lies easily, and Arya wonders how someone who hates lying so much grew to be so good at it. “If you would just give Lady Margaery and me a moment, please.”

It’s not clear if Ser Barristan believes her, but he’s obedient enough to nod and give Sansa the privacy she requests. Margaery glances back at the closed door before speaking again. “What are you really doing out of bed? Are you going somewhere?” There’s a shrewd look in Margaery’s narrowed eyes, as they seem to take in every inch of Sansa’s face. “Something is going on, and I would like to be told what it is.”

“What do you mean, Lady Margaery?” The way Sansa widens her eyes and the tone she uses makes her sound as innocent as a newborn lamb. “I’ve just had a daughter, and—”

“And I am thrilled for you, Your Grace,” Margaery claims. “Truly, I am. And I am so deeply relieved to hear you are doing better. I was so worried. But the strangest thing has just occurred, and I was hoping you could tell me why. I was sitting with my betrothed in the gardens, and Ser Jaime comes by insisting that Prince Joffrey must come with him. It has now been hours, and I can’t seem to find him or Ser Jaime anywhere.”

Sansa’s face drops. The Queen hardly ever allows her face to reflect her feelings, but apparently the idea of the Kingslayer leaving before she says goodbye is enough to crack the mask. Arya remembers how Sansa had accidentally called him Jaime in front of her that day in her chambers and how lovely they had looked together when he crowned her the Queen of Love and Beauty. _Is she having an affair with the Kingslayer? Did they plot Robert’s death together?_ It amuses her to think she might have been right about Sansa’s feelings for the golden knight. In spite of her dislike for the man, even she has to admit that when it comes to killing kings, Sansa probably couldn’t have chosen a better ally. And if it were true, it would make for an excellent story someday, perhaps something even worthy of a song. Sansa has always wanted life to be a song, after all.

“They will be leaving for Casterly Rock soon, for the memorial of Queen Cersei’s unfortunate passing,” Sansa says, once she appears to have recovered. “I’m sure they are only discussing travel plans.”

“Travel plans?” Margaery exclaims, looking almost offended by the suggestion. “Have you not heard about your husband? If you haven’t, I am sorry to break the news, Your Grace, but King Robert is on his deathbed. It is hardly the time for Prince Joffrey to be away from King’s Landing. We will need to be married as soon as possible, and Joffrey will need—”

“I only thought they might be speaking of future plans, for when everything is settled,” Sansa cuts in. “I am sure Ser Jaime is perfectly aware of the importance of King’s son being here at this time, Lady Margaery.”

_He would be_ , Arya thinks ruefully. _This isn’t the first King he has watched die._ As annoyed as she is growing with Margaery’s presence, she can’t help but be curious about what Ser Jaime taking Joffrey away means. _Could Sansa really have convinced Jaime to take Joffrey away from King’s Landing? Does she intend for Rickard to be named King?_ She isn’t sure even Sansa’s charms could turn Lannisters against each other, but perhaps she has been underestimating the power of her sister’s blue eyes and sweet smiles.

“ _Ooh_ ,” Sansa moans, bending forward to hold her stomach. “Oh dear.”

Arya suspects it’s another lie, but Jeyne instantly looks panicked. “Sansa, are you in pain? What happened?”

Sansa shakes her head. “No, I am sure it’s nothing. But—but just to be safe, Lady Margaery, could you please fetch me a maester? I am sure Grand Maester Pycelle is quite occupied saving my husband’s life at the moment, but you can find another, yes? Few know the Red Keep and its people better than you.”

A flicker of exasperation crosses Margaery’s features, but they fade quickly back into a pleasant smile. “Well, of course, Your Grace, but—”

“Oh, wonderful, thank you so much, Lady Margaery,” Sansa interjects, making it clear Margaery has been dismissed. “I will remember this kindness.” Grudgingly, Margaery curtsies to them and promises to be back soon.

When she’s gone, Sansa practically lunges at Arya, holding her against the wall and pressing their cheeks together. Her cheeks are flushed and her breaths are coming out in ragged pants. “Run ahead to the Sea Gate and see if you can find Ser Jaime. He’ll be boarding a small boat with dark sails with Joffrey, Myrcella, and Tommen in his company. Tell him I’m on my way, to the place we agreed to meet, and that I really must speak with him before he sets sail,” she whispers into Arya’s ear. “Tell him it’s important to me. Will you do that?”

“Of course I will, Sansa.” To prove it, she turns without another word, throws open the door, and dashes into the hall without even sparing Ser Barristan a glance. When she’s outside the chambers, she is fully prepared to start running toward the gate, but the sound of her name stops her short.

“Arya?”

Jeyne had told her Gendry was waiting for her, but she also said he had been waiting for hours. It surprises her he hasn’t left yet. “Gendry? What are you doing here?”

Gendry walks to her and reaches his arms out. For a moment, she thinks he means to embrace her, but they swiftly fall back down, fingers flexing by his sides. “Well, I heard about your sister, and I was worried. I also heard she and the baby had survived, but you can never be too sure about the things you hear around here, so I wanted to check for myself. And, well, I wanted to make sure _you_ were all right too.”

The smile seems to stretch across her lips on its own accord. It’s nice to have someone worry over her, to pace in a hallway for hours, waiting for her to come out and confirm she’s fine instead of trusting the whispers of the Red Keep. “You heard right. Sansa and the babe are alive and doing fine now. Though it was a close call,” she says. “And yeah, I’m fine, too.” He nods, but the news doesn’t seem to cheer him much. There’s a downcast look in his eyes and a frown tugging at the corners of his lips. “Gendry, are you okay?” _Is he worried about Robert?_ “I’ve heard the King isn’t well.”

Gendry shrugs. “I hardly knew the man anyways, and I didn’t like most of what I did know. I just wanted a chance to say goodbye to you.”

Arya’s stomach clenches. “Goodbye? Why? Where are you going?”

“If the King dies, well, I mean, he’s the only reason I’m here, right?”

_He thinks Sansa is going to make him leave._ “You’re not going anywhere, Gendry,” Arya assures him. “Even if it occurred to Sansa to send you away, which it won’t, trust me, I wouldn’t let her take my closest friend from me. So stop being stupid.”

“Arya, your sister is not going to want her husband’s bastards running around as a constant reminder of the man she was married to,” Gendry sighs. “I wouldn’t blame her for sending us back to where we came from. I don’t belong here. I’ve never really belonged here. You know that.”

_I don’t belong here either. That’s why I need you here._ “My sister is a bit, well, she can be a bit of a twit sometimes, but she’s not going to send you away. We’re working on not being completely awful to each other. She’s not going to make us part.”

“And you wouldn’t want that?”

“Wouldn’t want what?”

Gendry rolls his eyes and takes another step closer to her. It is a long enough stride to close most of the distance between them. It is a long enough stride that she could reach out and run her hands over his thick arms or through his long, black hair if she wanted to. He looks down and meets her eyes without blinking. “You wouldn’t want to be parted from me?”

Arya swallows, trying to ignore how suddenly dry her mouth has become. “We’re friends. You’re the only one who spars with me and makes me laugh and doesn’t think I’m crazy. Are you really surprised I don’t want to be parted from you?”

Gendry smiles and somehow his eyes seem even bluer. “I’m actually more surprised you’re admitting it.”

_And what is that supposed to mean?_ “Well, then, now that that’s all cleared up—” She goes to leave again, but Gendry catches her arm.

“What about Joffrey? He’ll be the King when the sun rises tomorrow by the look of it. That little shit despises me. His first decree will be to banish me to Flea Bottom, never to return. And _his_ Queen sure as hell won’t argue. Your sister might not be able to stop him.”

_Don’t worry about Joffrey_. That’s what Sansa had said, and Arya trusts her even if she still can’t figure out how she managed it. “Gendry, would you just trust me?” she snaps, becoming increasingly aware that every moment she remains here with him, the more likely it is she won’t catch the Kingslayer in time.

Gendry sighs and does that thing with his arms again, where she thinks he means to embrace her or touch her but doesn’t. “I want to trust you, Arya. I’m trying to, but I just can’t stand the thought of waking up with that little shit standing over me, demanding I leave immediately, and me never getting to say goodbye to you. I can’t stand it. I despise this place, but you’re here, and the thought of being anywhere else is bloody awful. We’re going to be parted eventually, even if it’s not because of the Prince, and I don’t want to learn one day that you’ve run away to Braavos or gone off to Starfall, and I never said goodbye. I don’t want you to go to Starfall. I don’t want you to marry Edric Dayne. I don’t want to leave this place without you, and I don’t want to stay in this place without you. So would you just humor me and say goodbye to me, just in case?”

The speech is so unlike the quiet, brooding Gendry she is accustomed to that she hardly knows what to say. All she knows is that it makes her chest feel tight and her stomach is fluttering in a way that would prompt Sansa to tease her endlessly if she knew. Words are not particularly easy for him, and it must have been torture for him to say even that much. She feels like she has to respond somehow, but she doesn’t have time to come up with words to match those. She doesn’t have time to explain that when she imagines Braavos, she imagines him there with her. She doesn’t have time to explain that she’s not going to Starfall without a fight. _Damn it, Arya, you have to get to the Sea Gate._ Instead of giving Gendry the words he wants or allowing him to say another word, she decides to respond by doing something she’s never done before. She offers him no warning before she hops up on to her toes and grasps his broad shoulders and plants her lips firmly against his.

Before she has a chance to enjoy the warmth of his lips or the way his large hands grasp at her hips, someone clears his throat very loudly behind them. “Lady Arya!” The two of them waste no time bounding away from each other and turning to find Ser Barristan glaring at them from the doorway. “Watch yourself, boy,” he warns Gendry. “This is the daughter of the Hand of the King, in case you’ve forgotten.”

“I’m sure he hasn’t forgotten, Ser Barristan,” Sansa says cheerfully, emerging from behind him with Jeyne’s thin arms wrapped around her waist. “Did you, Gendry?”

Gendry flushes a violent shade of red and elects to stare intently at his shoes instead of meeting her sister’s eyes. Arya expects him to stay like that and sputter out an almost incomprehensible apology like he had when confronted with King Robert, but before she can think to be disappointed, his head snaps back up and he meets Sansa’s eyes. “No, Your Grace, I did not forget. It would be difficult to forget Lady Arya.”

The confident response makes her feel giddy. _He’ll fight for me. If Father and Mother try to send me to Starfall, he’ll fight it with me._ Ser Barristan looks affronted, but Arya only cares about how Sansa is practically beaming back at him. She’s not sure her sister and Gendry have ever spoken to each other until now, but this seems a good as time as any for them to start. “Indeed, and if you dared forget, I’m sure she’d make you remember.”

“Sansa, I’m sorry—” She wants to apologize for getting caught up with Gendry, but Sansa waves her off.

“It’s all right. You’ll still get there long before I will anyways at this rate. I can barely walk, and Ser Barristan is refusing to carry me.”

“I am refusing to assist you in blatantly ignoring the Grand Maester’s orders, Your Grace,” Ser Barristan retorts, as politely as he seems to be able to manage. “If something happens to you, your father is going to have my head.”

“Well, if you’d just carry me—”

“I can carry you, Your Grace.” Four pairs of wide eyes land on Gendry at once. She feels her jaw hanging open, and she wonders if it is her kiss that has suddenly made him so bold. The feel of so many eyes on him apparently erodes some of his earlier self-confidence, because he looks down to focus on his shoes again. “I apologize—”

“Oh, don’t be silly!” Sansa exclaims, too loudly, with a strange squeaky pitch to her voice that makes Arya guess Jeyne let her finish off the milk of poppy Pycelle left behind. “Thank you for the offer, Ser Gendry.”

Arya laughs out loud at _Ser Gendry._ The day has been an absolute nightmare, but at least she has discovered a drugged Sansa is far funnier than she could have imagined. “Well, _Ser_ Gendry, go on then. Pick the Queen up. Gently, though.”

Gendry blushes again, but leans forward to pull Sansa into his arms. He lifts her carefully but quickly, likes she’s made of glass, like she weighs nothing at all, and it makes Arya smile. “Where am I bringing you, Your Grace?”

“You’re not going anywhere with the Queen,” Barristan hisses. His teeth are clenched and his face is so red, it looks like he’s about to pass out. “Your father is going to—”

“My father would expect you to listen to your Queen, Ser Barristan,” Sansa interrupts sweetly, before turning her head toward Gendry. “We are going to the Sea Gate. If you could walk quickly, that would be lovely.”

Gendry starts moving forward without another word. His long strides are difficult to keep up with, but she, Jeyne, and Ser Barristan certainly do their best. It seems the milk of poppy has made Sansa forget her desire to travel unnoticed, because she keeps calling out to them over Gendry’s shoulder. “Ser Barristan!” she exclaims, as they pass through a set of doors to the outside of the castle. “As Queen, am I able to knight Gendry?”

Barristan blusters at that. “For _what_ , Your Grace?”

“For so gallantly carrying his Queen, of course! Oh, never mind. Knighthood is not enough anyways. Perhaps I’ll give you Dragonstone. I’ve never liked Lord Stannis, you know. He always gives me this look, like I’m trying to seduce him or something, and he’s terribly offended by it. How would you like that? Lord Gendry Baratheon of Dragonstone. Then you could marry Arya and finally make a proper lady out of her. Though she'd probably look dreadful in gold.”

“Gods, Jeyne, how much milk of poppy did you let her drink?” Arya mutters.

Jeyne flushes and bows her head a little. “Well, she said her neck hurt, and I just thought… I put what Maester Pycelle left behind in her tea. I thought it would help, but, oh, I guess I put too much in, didn’t I?”

“It would seem so.” Arya chuckles to herself and sprints ahead until she’s next to Gendry. “Take care of her, okay? I’m going to run ahead. There’s something I need to do.”

“Of course, sure, okay,” Gendry agrees. The look of sheer terror on his face, as Sansa wraps her arms around his neck and starts yelling about Gendry and Arya’s imaginary children ruling Dragonstone is one of the funniest sights she has ever seen. But even if the true intention of this journey has briefly slipped her sister’s addled mind, Arya has not forgotten, and she is not going to allow the Kingslayer to leave until Sansa gets the goodbye she needs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only two more chapters left to go! They will be Ned and Jaime POVs. I might also be adding a chapter as a sort of epilogue, but we'll see.
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	10. Eddard III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The parchment feels heavy in his hand. Ned isn’t sure what he expected to find when he parted from Maester Pycelle to kick down the door to the Kingslayer’s chambers, but it was certainly not this. It had been resting neatly on the bed, the crimson of the Lannister wax seal flashing against the white of the parchment. The rest of the room was nearly bare with no indication but the letter someone had ever lived there at all.

The parchment feels heavy in his hand. Ned isn’t sure what he expected to find when he parted from Maester Pycelle to kick down the door to the Kingslayer’s chambers, but it was certainly not this. It had been resting neatly on the bed, the crimson of the Lannister wax seal flashing against the white of the parchment. The rest of the room was nearly bare with no indication but the letter someone had ever lived there at all.

_I, Ser Jaime Lannister of the Kingsguard, eldest son of Lord Tywin Lannister of Casterly Rock, hereby confess that three of the children King Robert Baratheon has claimed as his own seed and his own blood — Prince Joffrey, Princess Myrcella, and Prince Tommen — are bastards borne of incest, the results of my affair with my sister and the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms before her passing, Cersei Lannister Baratheon._ The Kingslayer does not once apologize in the letter. He never describes the affair as sinful or disgraceful or disgusting, never writes of it as the thoughtless, selfish crime against the kingdom it is. The words are plain and terse, offering no more than the barest of facts until the last line— _We loved each other, and we would not be kept apart for anything._ Jaime Lannister has left only a few short sentences behind, just enough to ensure Rickard’s place as Robert's heir will never be challenged, but somehow it still feels like the man is mocking him. He crushes the letter inside of his fist and shoves it into the pocket of his breeches. When he pulls his hand away, he sees the wax of the Lannister seal has stuck to his palm. _It almost looks like blood._

When he reaches the King’s chambers, Lord Renly is pacing in front of the door, muttering furiously under his breath while Ser Mandon and Ser Arys watch on silently. Renly stops short when he notices Ned approaching. The fury and revulsion the confession has inspired in him must still be written on his face, because Renly’s eyes go wide and his head drops in contrition, making him look like a mere boy rather than a man grown. “Gods, Ned, I’m so sorry, I swear I tried to stop him. I did everything I could. I told him he was drinking too much and too quickly and that the wine must have been stronger than usual, but he wouldn’t listen to me. You _know_ how he refuses to listen sometimes and—”

Ned reaches forward to squeeze Renly’s shoulder. “This isn’t your fault, Renly. No one will think so.”

Renly sighs and leans back against the wall. “I _told_ him not to charge at the damned boar, Ned. Begged him, even. But he was completely in his cups. He wouldn’t hear reason. It didn’t matter what I said when—”

“Is that Ned?” A booming voice calls out from the other side of the door. Renly flinches at the sound. “Don’t listen to the boy, Ned! He’s always had a stick up his arse! That’s what I get for leaving Stannis to raise him, huh? Just get in here, Ned! I’m sick of Pycelle’s blasted chattering. I need to tell you about the boar! It was a beast, Ned, sent from the deepest of the seven hells. Biggest one I’ve ever seen!”

When Renly’s teeth clench and he mutters _asshole_ under his breath, Ned pretends not to hear. “How is he faring? What does Pycelle think?”

“It’s bad,” Renly whispers, glancing uneasily over his shoulder at the two Kingsguard knights. “He might sound okay, but he looks like death, you’ll see. Pycelle isn’t optimistic he’ll make it through the night.”

Ned’s stomach twists with something familiar, something that feels like regret. He can’t help but ask himself if this is his fault and if he is simply getting what he prayed for when he knelt beside Sansa’s bed. But when he pleaded with the gods to spare his daughter and promised them to protect her from Robert, this is not the resolution he had hoped for.

“Should I summon the children? They ought to say goodbye to him while they can.”

“No,” Ned answers, too harshly and too quickly. Renly looks as taken aback by the response as Ned feels for having given it. It is expected the King’s children will see him on his deathbed. It is expected they will hold his hand and say goodbye, and it will look more than a little suspicious if they don’t arrive to do so soon. But he knows the servants sent to find Joffrey, Myrcella, and Tommen will not find them in their rooms. He knows they will find missing belongings and empty beds instead and that a search will inevitably be called.

It is tempting to take his answer back and say yes. It is tempting to order Ser Arys and Ser Mandon bring the children and Ser Jaime to him immediately, thwarting the escape attempt that is no doubt in progress. He could even casually suggest they search the docks first, as that is certainly where they are, preparing to board a vessel willing to sail away under the cover of the night’s sky for some Lannister coin. He has the Kingslayer’s signed confession now. With it, there is no way the man could avoid the punishment for his crimes as he has so many times before. And even if he can’t convince Robert to offer mercy to the children, he and Sansa could reverse whatever decision he reaches the coming morning, after the King has passed. They could send Joffrey, Myrcella, and Tommen to the safety of Casterly Rock to live the rest of their lives as Lannister bastards. It is only the Kingslayer’s blood that would be spilled, only the Kingslayer who would be forced to recount his unspeakable treasons to the kingdom and finally suffer their consequences.

But something stops him from giving the order. There is a gnawing feeling in his gut, a voice screaming at him from the darkest corner of his mind to keep his lips sealed on the matter. He thinks it might be fear—fear that the Kingslayer will expand upon the confession he left behind if he is caught and forced to face justice, fear that the man’s new confession would include his daughter’s name.

_Sansa has nothing to do with this_ , he tells himself for the hundredth time since he left her chambers. The words have almost become a mantra, a prayer he hopes if he repeats often enough he might actually start to believe in.

He wants to believe she has nothing do with Robert’s condition or Jaime Lannister’s escape, but it all seems so suspiciously timed to him—the birth, the hunt, the King’s fall, the escape—to truly be a coincidence. Sansa’s strange confession, Jaime’s willingness to leave without a fight, and the way his daughter had looked up at the Kingslayer at Robert’s tournament don’t sit right with him. And something the Kingslayer had said to him in the Sept, something he had simply brushed off at the time as nonsense, haunts him as well.

_Your daughter wouldn’t like this._ That’s what Jaime spat at him when Ned demanded he leave in three days time. _She has granted me a respite from my duties in two weeks_. That’s when Sansa’s babe was expected to arrive. Had that been when they initially planned to kill Robert? Were they forced to act sooner because of him? How they could have managed such a feat is beyond him though. His daughter and Ser Jaime are certainly clever, but they are not magic. They could not have summoned Sansa’s babe into the world early or charmed a boar to gut Robert. Surely, Jaime is simply running as Ned commanded him to, and he has only misunderstood his daughter’s murmured words. If Sansa really knew the revolting truth of Jaime and Cersei Lannister, there is no way she would allow herself to become entangled with him.

But the absurdity of his suspicions brings him little comfort or changes his mind about staying quiet. He cannot risk what the Kingslayer might say if he is caught and questioned. He cannot risk the dreadful man deciding to impugn his daughter's good name and bring her down with him. “It will only scare them,” he offers Renly in explanation. “It’s better if they don’t see him like this. We don’t want this to be their last memory of their father.”

“He _is_ still quite drunk and acting like an absolute fool,” Renly admits. “Perhaps you’re right, Ned. It’s better they not see him like this. You do know him best.” Ned has to acknowledge he has thought up a convincing reason for the children’s absence, but Renly’s trust leaves him feeling ill. He is lying to protect the Kingslayer. He is lying to protect a daughter who might have been party to the most grievous treason there is.

“And Queen Sansa? Should she be informed?”

At the sound of her name, Ned feels like he might actually vomit. _My sweet Sansa_ —he has called her that since the day she looked up at him from her mother’s arms with wide, beautiful blue eyes. She is his little lady, demure and gentle and romantic. Imagining her as anything else, imagining her as a _kingslayer_ , feels so painfully wrong. “She’s already been informed of her husband’s condition and she is much distressed over it, but Grand Maester Pycelle says she’s not yet well enough to leave her bed. I’m afraid she is too weak to see him.”

Renly doesn’t look surprised by the answer. In fact, he almost looks relieved. “Yes, of course. She should rest after what she’s been through today. But you, you should go in and see him,” Renly suggests, nodding to the door. “He’s been asking for you since we got back.”

He knows he should go inside, but dread leaves him paralyzed outside the door. Robert has always been the strong one between them, robust and brave and full of life. It seems like only yesterday they were in the Vale, Robert catching the eye of every maiden they passed, and Ned looking up to him with admiration and more than a little envy. It had been disconcerting to see how Robert had changed when he first arrived to Winterfell, how he had grown fat and miserable and gray, but he knows this will be even worse.

The admiration he once felt for Robert has all but vanished now. In secret and under his breath, he has cursed and condemned and resented his friend and King countless times—for betraying his daughter with other women, for drowning his kingdom in needless debt, for ignoring his children, for leaving Cersei Lannister to die without her husband, for staring at Arya with unihibited desire, and for ordering the deaths of two children across the Narrow Sea who had done nothing to deserve such a fate except be born Targaryens. But it still saddens him to think Robert will perish alone, without a wife or children by his side, even if it is his own fault for never allowing himself to be the man and king he could have been and for holding so stubbornly to Lyanna’s ghost.

_Lyanna._ He suddenly remembers the black-haired, gray-eyed newborn sleeping in the crib outside his daughter’s chambers. “He’ll want to meet his daughter,” he sighs to Renly. “Sansa named her Lyanna, and he’ll want to meet her before he—” He pauses and takes a deep breath, unable to voice the words. “He’ll want to meet her. If you could—”

“I’ll retrieve her straight away,” Renly interjects, looking relieved to have something to do. “And I will check in on Queen Sansa, if that’s okay with you, Lord Stark. I was rather worried about her.”

The only Baratheon brother Sansa has ever seemed to take to is Lord Renly, and Ned wonders if he should have pushed for a match between them instead. Renly is young and kind and handsome, perhaps she could have been happy with him. “Yes, of course, Renly,” Ned agrees. “I’m sure she’ll be glad to see you. Make sure she hasn’t left her bed and that Arya and Jeyne aren't pestering her, would you? Pycelle said it was very important she rest.”

When Renly leaves, Ned takes another deep breath and tries to prepare himself for what awaits him in the other room. _You’ve seen hundreds of men die in battle. This can’t be any worse. Just open the door._

When he pushes inside, the creak of the door is drowned out by Robert’s boisterous voice. As he recounts the story of the boar to Pycelle, he doesn’t sound like a dying man. He sounds like the boy Ned remembers. “So I looked the hell beast straight in the eyes, and I raised up my hammer and—Oh, Ned, there you are!” Robert exclaims at the sight of him, a wide grin stretching across his ashen face. Despite the grin, he looks old and fragile and so unlike the man Ned grew up with. When he moves to sit at Robert’s side, he can feel tears pushing at the backs of his eyes. “I was just telling Pycelle here about the boar. It was beast, I tell you. Bigger than any we ever saw in the Vale.”

Pycelle does little to hide his frustration when he marches over to Ned. He also doesn’t bother to pull Ned aside or lower his voice when he declares, “I’m afraid there’s nothing more I can do for the King, Lord Stark. His Grace has lost too much blood, and he’s drunk too much wine. There isn’t much time left—”

“Hear that, Ned?” Robert laughs. “This is how it ends! Drunk off my arse and soaked in blood… I wouldn’t have wanted it any other way. Well, it would be better to have a maiden’s mouth around my cock, but I suppose your company will have to do, my old friend.”

Robert’s voice sounds odd to him. It’s too nasally, and his words are slurring together like he has never heard them do before, even when Robert was nearly passed out drunk. When Ned leans closer to him, he can see that Robert’s pupils are blown wide, and the whites of his eyes have turned a pale yellow. Ned has seen plenty of men die from blood loss, and they never looked like this. It strikes him that this could be the work of something more nefarious than a wild boar. It strikes him that Pycelle might be ignoring the mysterious symptoms, that he might actually care so little for the King’s life, and he hates himself for being relieved. _It was the boar that killed him. You are just seeing things that aren’t there—plots and lies and poisons where there are no plots and lies and poisons to be found._

“Would you give us the room for a moment, Grand Maester?” Pycelle doesn’t answer, but he soon hears the creak and click of the door.

“Ah, could you not look so godsdamned solemn for once, Ned?” Robert complains. He goes to clap Ned on the shoulder, but the hand lands weakly and remains there, as if he is too tired to take it back. “This isn’t such a bad thing, is it? Your daughter will be better off without me. Hell, everyone will probably be better off without me. Even you.”

“Don’t say that, Robert.”

“Why? It’s the truth, isn’t it? We’ve never been afraid of the truth, you and I. Not like the rest of them. There’s no need to start lying now because I’m a dying man. I’m a miserable old drunk, and I have been for years. I’d bet all of Tywin Lannister’s gold your daughter is already dancing on my grave.”

“Sansa is not well enough to be dancing anywhere at the moment,” Ned snaps back. The health of Sansa and the newly born babe should have been the first thing Robert asked after. It should have been the first thing any decent man asked after. “She nearly died giving birth to your daughter, you know, while you were out in the Kingswood—drinking and chasing down wild boars and getting yourself killed.”

Robert’s brow furrows at that, and his mouth tightens into a hard line. He almost looks guilty. “And what of the babe?"

“You have a daughter,” Ned says. “She’s beautiful. Black hair and gray eyes—”

“ _Gray_ eyes?”

“Yes, gray eyes, Stark eyes. Sansa has named her Lyanna.”

There is a moment of silence, in which Robert’s eyes widen and his shoulders hunch forward, before a powerful, alarming sob escapes his lips. The sound nearly sends Ned staggering backwards. In all of the years they have known each other, Ned can only recall seeing Robert cry twice—the day the news of Steffon and Cassana Baratheon’s deaths arrived to the Vale and the day he learned Lyanna was lost to him forever. But he thinks this might be even worse than either of those days. Robert looks frightfully unwell, and each sob seems to be rapidly draining the last bits of life he has left.

“Lyanna?” he chokes out, somehow finding the strength to grip Ned’s shoulder. “The girl named her Lyanna?”

He tries not to bristle at the way Robert still calls Sansa _girl_. “Yes, she did. I thought it appropriate. I think the babe might grow up to look very much like her.”

“Gods,” Robert mutters, as the tears stream freely down his cheeks and catch in his beard. “She named her Lyanna. Gods, I didn’t deserve that girl, did I?”

_No, you didn’t_. “Sansa is not well,” he says instead. “She will not be able to come see you, I’m afraid.”

A bitter laugh mixes in with Robert’s sobs. “Well, that’s good at least. Best not to torture the girl by making her pretend she gives a damn I’m dying. I’m sorry about it all, you know.” He leans close to Ned, staring straight into his eyes. “I handled it all so poorly. I know that now. I knew it then, too. I suppose I’ve always known it. None of it was what I wanted though—that’s what you have to understand, Ned. It’s not what I wanted, and I was so fucking miserable. But you all didn’t deserve to be miserable with me. Especially not you, Ned. You were always a good man. Even as a boy, I knew I didn’t deserve a friend like you.”

The tears that have been building up behind Ned’s eyes finally break free. It comes as a relief that there is still some of the man he remembers in Robert, even if it took such drastic circumstances to draw him out. When Robert bends forward to hack up blood and his hand falls limply from Ned's shoulder, he finds himself praying once more that Sansa had nothing to do with this. He isn’t sure he could stand the idea of it, that his sweet Sansa could do this to a man.

When the coughing fit ends, Robert leans back against the pillows and turns his head to meet Ned’s eyes again. “Well, we ought to stop blubbering like little girls and get the affairs of the kingdom in order, I suppose. Do you have something to write with?”

He can feel the Kingslayer’s confession pushing against his thigh. He should take it out and show it to Robert and confess everything before it is too late. “Of course,” he says instead, reaching for the ink and parchment on the table by Robert’s bed.

“Joffrey should marry the Tyrell girl immediately, right after his coronation, if you can manage it,” Robert begins. “I wish it could have been Rickard, to be honest. _That’s_ what my heir should look like, not just another blond little Lannister shit. And Joffrey will make a shit king, won’t he? It’s a shame he’s too old to name a king regent, but you’ll stay on as his Hand, yes? You can talk some sense into the boy.”

Ned isn’t sure there is anyone in Westeros who could talk sense into Joffrey, but he is sure that if Joffrey were ever named King, Tywin Lannister would replace him as Hand in no more than a moon’s turn. If anything good comes out of this mess, Ned thinks it will be that Prince Joffrey will never touch the Iron Throne.

Instead of writing down Robert’s words, he gives Robert his wish and indirectly names Rickard the new King. _My only trueborn son shall inherit the throne._ It feels like the worst kind of deception. He once had every intention of telling Robert the truth of matters, the moment the children were finally out of his reach, but he can’t bring himself to do it now. He can’t bring himself to voice the betrayal, as Robert clings fruitlessly to life. “Of course, Your Grace.”

“Robert, for gods’ sake, Ned. Call me Robert.”

“Robert,” he sighs. “And what of Sansa and your other children?”

The King frowns at the mention of his wife. As he seems to ponder that question, Ned wonders if Sansa will want to be Rickard’s regent. The people love her and she is a capable enough ruler. Though as much as he hates the idea of wearing a crown himself, he hates the idea of one corrupting his sweet Sansa even more.

“Find a good marriage for Myrcella,” Robert continues. “She seemed to like that boy from Dorne, didn’t she? He’s a second son, but he’ll do if that’s what she wants, wouldn’t want her ending up like her mother. And find Tommen someone decent to squire for, just not his godsdamned uncle or any fucking Lannister, if you can help it. He’s a good lad, not like his brother. Get him out of this place, and keep him away from Casterly Rock. As for your daughter, find her a good, Northron husband. None of them will care that she’s used, only that she’s your daughter. Send her and her babes away from this place before it destroys them.”

_Find her a good, Northron husband._ It’s precisely what he should have done in the first place, for Sansa and Arya both. The young men of the North would have killed for a chance at his lovely daughter’s hand, for the hand of a daughter of Winterfell. They would have treated her with respect or they would have dealt with the wrath of their liege lord. In the North, he could have kept her safe. In the North, she could have been with her mother and would have never learned to lie so seamlessly or to make her face such a pretty, emotionless mask.

He only pretends to the write the words. Joffrey will never be the King, Myrcella will never marry Trystane Martell, Tommen will never be a knight, and Sansa and Rickard will probably never venture back North. Part of him even doubts Sansa will want him to continue his duties as Hand after the ways he has failed her. The idea of going back North, of spending his nights next to Catelyn and his days watching his children grow and play, is an appealing one. But even if Sansa does not want his help, he can’t imagine abandoning her and her children to this place, not when he is the one who trapped them all here.

By the time he presses the parchment in front of Robert, the King can barely open his eyes to look at it. Without taking in any of the words, he scratches his name across the bottom and then lets his head fall back, mouth hanging open. Ned feels sick with guilt but forces himself to neatly fold the parchment and close it with the King’s seal. When he presses the royal seal over the hot wax, he knows he will never be the same man. He knows this act has made him a liar and a traitor against the crown, has thrust him down with the likes of the Kingslayer.

Robert groans and his eyes fall shut. For a moment, Ned thinks him dead. _He doesn’t deserve to live._ He considers how much truth is in Arya’s pronouncement. Robert has behaved shamelessly, failing his kingdom, his wife, and his children every single day. But Ned cannot convince himself that this is justice, and he cannot shake the sadness gripping his throat and compelling him to press his fingertips to the pulse under Robert’s jaw.

“I’m not dead yet, Ned,” Robert grunts. “But I will be before long. I can see the darkness coming. I’ll be dancing with your sister soon. Every day since she was stolen from me, I’ve dreamt of seeing her face again, and now I finally will.”

_You won’t_ , Ned thinks, thankful he had the sense not to say the words aloud. _She rests in Winterfell. She rests in the crypts with her family, where she belongs._

The door creaks open again, and Renly steps inside with baby Lyanna balanced carefully in his arms. “Robert, I’ve brought you your daughter.”

Robert’s eyes snap open, and he somehow finds the strength to lift his head just slightly. The tears begin again, but he does not sob this time, only looks at the babe with quiet wonder. “Bring her here,” he demands. “Let me see her.”

Ned worries Robert’s large, roughs hands will crush the tiny creature, but when Renly moves her into his arms, he holds her with the utmost care. At that moment, the babe mews and her eyes flutter open. Robert audibly gasps. “Gods, her eyes,” he whispers. “She has Lyanna’s eyes.”

Robert cradles Lyanna against his chest and presses a soft kiss to her forehead. Ned feels his chest tighten at the sight. It pains him that Robert will never live up to his potential. This is the man who raged at the injustices perpetrated against Ned’s family by the crown, the man who recognized King Aerys as dangerous and unjust and then fearlessly led the rebel army into battle against him. This is the man who loved Lyanna with everything he had. That man had the potential to do anything. But then Lyanna died and a crown was placed on his head, and the Robert Baratheon he knew was buried beneath regret and wine and bitterness.

Lyanna reaches out one of her tiny hands and tugs at Robert’s beard. His old friend breaks down again, sobbing violently and pushing the babe back into Renly’s arms. “Gods, she’s perfect. Don’t let anything happen to her. Send them all back North, Ned,” he pleads. “Do you hear me, Ned? Send them all back North, and don’t dally about it. If she has Lyanna’s spirit, this place will crush her. Promise me, Ned.”

_Promise me, Ned._

He wants to promise he’ll take Lyanna away from King’s Landing, that she’ll grow up behind the walls of Winterfell instead of the Red Keep, but he knows Sansa will never stand for being separated from her children. He makes a different promise instead, one he is determined to keep. “I’ll keep her safe, Robert. I promise I’ll keep them all safe.”

There’s a small smile on Robert’s face, as he falls back down against the pillows. “I know you will, Ned. You’re a good man. The best man I've ever met.”

Ned doesn’t know what to say to that. He certainly doesn’t feel like a good man. He feels like a liar and a traitor. He feels like a terrible friend, a terrible husband, and an even worse father. He wishes Catelyn were here to tell him what to do, but he can imagine well enough what she would say. Catelyn is an honorable woman who takes her duties seriously, but he suspects she’d still tell him to protect their daughter at all costs, even if it meant betraying his King.

“We’re still brothers, right, Ned?”

He sees Renly flinch, but the young man says nothing, only walks away with Lyanna to leave Ned and Robert alone. “Of course, Robert. That hasn’t changed. That never changed.” It is another lie, but he has told so many lies today that it leaves his lips without much trouble. It is surprisingly easy to lie to a dying man.

He never does tell Robert the truth. He never condemns him for his treatment of Sansa or for the unseemly way he looked at Arya. He never gives the order to have Jaime Lannister seized and thrown into the Black Cells either. He also resolves to never ask Sansa for the truth of her relationship with the Kingslayer and what she meant by that strange whisper. But he does hold Robert’s hand, as his friend’s chest deflates and the life in his bright blue eyes fades away. He forces himself not to look away when Robert passes, drool and blood dribbling down his chin, and he does nothing to contain the tears pouring down his face. The man in front of him may not be the same man he considered his closest friend, but he can mourn the man Robert could have been and never was, he can mourn a once great man dying fat and wretched and reeking of his own vomit and piss.

“Is he—?” Renly hovers awkwardly by the door. He doesn’t finish the question, but Ned knows what he’s asking.

“Yes.”

“Oh. At least he was able to meet his daughter first. It was kind of Sansa to name her Lyanna. Kinder than he deserved from her.”

_She didn’t do it for Robert._ He rather suspects she named the babe Lyanna for him, for the love she knows he still bears for his late sister. That thought only makes the tears fall harder, because it is probably kinder than he deserves from her as well.

Warring emotions begin to overwhelm him, battling it out inside of him for dominance, as he tries to decide how he ought to feel. Should he be devastated by Robert’s death? Should he hate himself for not demanding Pycelle try harder to save him and for not suggesting poison rather than blood loss might be the cause of the King’s distress? Or should he celebrate that his daughters will be free now, that Robert will never disrespect Sansa again and that Arya will never have to suffer his attentions? Should he proud that he has kept his damning suspicions about Sansa a secret and grateful that no one else chanced to hear her mumbled confession? Or should he simply be disappointed in himself for helping set these consequences in motion, for taking his family away from the North knowing that nothing good came of Starks going south of the Neck?

He barely reacts when Grand Maester Pycelle enters his line of vision to bend over Robert’s body and press a hand to his neck. “The King has died from blood loss, due to a wound inflicted by a wild boar,” he announces, almost sounding bored. Pycelle meets his eyes as he speaks, and Ned thinks he might be trying to communicate something to him. _What does he know? Was there something more he could have done for Robert?_ But Ned doesn’t allow himself to dwell long on those questions. It easier to believe his imagination has simply run wild.

He wipes away the tears from his face with the backs of his sleeves. “He would want to be entombed in his armor, his _best_ armor,” Ned tells Pycelle. “When you—when you prepare him, just keep that in mind, yes?”

“Of course, Lord Stark.”

Ned moves to flee from the room, with Renly close at his heels. It reeks of sour wine and blood and piss, and he can’t stand to smell it a moment longer. “I’m sorry for your loss,” he says to Renly when the door closes behind them.

“I should be saying that to you, I think. He was more your brother than he ever was mine,” Renly counters, but there is a surprising lack of bitterness behind the statement. “Are you all right, Ned? Is there anything you need me to do?”

Just then, Ned notices a hulking figure pass under the torches at the end of the hall. Without thinking, he runs toward the man, knowing exactly who it must be and what it must mean that he is wandering the Red Keep alone. “Clegane!” he calls out, stopping the scarred man’s journey short. “May I speak with you a moment?”

Sandor Clegane turns and raises an eyebrow at the request. “You’re the Hand of the King,” the man rasps. “If you want to speak then speak.”

“Why are you not with Prince Joffrey? You are his sworn—”

“The Kingslayer has dismissed me from Prince Joffrey’s service for the night,” Clegane sneers. “He’s the bloody knight. Why don’t you ask him that question?” With that, Clegane stalks away from him, disappearing into the shadows.

Renly is frowning when Ned walks back. “What was that about?”

“It was nothing. I was just asking after Joffrey.”

“Ah, and what a fine king my brother’s son will make,” Renly mutters. He starts to bounce baby Lyanna gently in his arms and leans his face closer to hers. “She really is a gorgeous babe. I can see Sansa in her nose.”

He can see his daughter in more than just the babe’s nose. Lyanna is nearly as beautiful as he remembers Sansa being when Cat first proudly presented her to him and placed her in his arms. “She might never know her father, but she’ll be very loved,” Ned says. “How was Sansa faring when you saw her?”

Renly bites down on his lip, and Ned knows instantly that something is wrong. “Sansa, well, she wasn’t there when I arrived. One of the handmaidens said she left to see the King. I thought I’d find her here when I came back. I thought maybe she just wanted to keep up appearances, you know? But she’s clearly not here, so I’m not—”

The world starts spinning. Ned has to reach out and hold the wall to keep from falling to his knees. The first thought that comes to his mind is, _She’s running away with him. Sansa is running away with the Kingslayer._ He can’t stop seeing Jaime Lannister resting the crown of red roses on Sansa’s head. He can’t stop seeing the dreamy smile Sansa had worn afterwards and how her fingers kept running over the blooms. The sensible part of him argues she would never leave her babes behind to run away with the golden knight, but he never thought his sister would run away from Winterfell with a silver prince either. A Kind is dead, a Stark daughter is missing, and a babe has been born without a father—history is threatening to repeat itself, but this time he must stop it before it all falls apart.

“Take care of the babe.” That is all he says to Renly before he takes off running. The Sea Gate is not far from here and if he runs fast enough, maybe he can put a stop to this madness before it leaves the kingdom in ruins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you might have noticed from the chapter number change, I've decided to add an epilogue. It's already written, so I'll be able to post it a couple of days after the last chapter--a Jaime POV chapter, at last!
> 
> This chapter didn't exist when I first planned the story, but I thought it important King Robert die "on screen." Hope you liked it, and thank you for reading!


	11. Jaime III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The details of Robert’s fall are on the tip of his tongue, demanding to be recounted to someone—the sound of the King’s slurred words, the drool glistening on his chin as he clumsily charged forward, the shout that rang out when the boar’s horns pierced his fat belly, the way his red, red blood shone against the fresh grass. It was beautiful. It was perfect. But he doesn’t think Sansa would want to hear any of it. He can imagine her face twisting while he talks of gushing blood and the panicked cries of Lord Renly. He can imagine her lovely eyes clouding over with guilt and tears while he talks of Robert keeling forward and hacking blood on to the ground. Cersei would have demanded an exhaustive description of every moment until she could build the picture in her own mind, until it was almost like she had been there with him. But Sansa is not Cersei.

Tommen’s pack is dragging behind him in the dirt, but Jaime can’t bring himself to scold him for it. The boy is smiling like a fool and whispering something to the tiny black and white kitten cradled in his arm. When Jaime told him they were going to see Uncle Tyrion in Casterly Rock, he had been thrilled. The way the boy’s— _his son’s_ —face had lit up leaves him feeling sick with guilt. He’s a trusting boy, too trusting, but Jaime won’t be able to hide the truth from him for much longer, not when their ship sails out into the deep waters of the Narrow Sea and they don’t see land for moons.

Myrcella is different. She hasn’t muttered a word of protest, but she doesn’t smile like her brother. Instead, she keeps glancing back at him, a knowing look in her eyes that shakes him to his core. Of all Cersei’s children— _his children_ —Myrcella is the one he sees his late sister in the most. She’s gentler and more soft-spoken than his twin ever was, but there’s a familiar gleam of intelligence in her sharp green eyes. Jaime knows she hasn’t been fooled by his tale. She knows something’s wrong, but for some reason she’s chosen to stay quiet, perhaps for Tommen’s sake.

Sweet Tommen and intelligent Myrcella—he tries to feel some connection toward them, that strong, protective feeling parents ought to feel for their children. But even though he has known they were his children all along, he has never allowed himself to think of them as such. He never cradled them in his arms as babes, never embraced them when they were upset or scolded them when they were disobedient, never mended their hurts or listened to their dreams. Whenever he got too close, whenever he showed them too much interest or too much affection, Cersei would be there to stop it with a simple shake of her head meant to remind him it wasn’t worth the risk of exposing their love. Tyrion is much closer to Myrcella and Tommen than he has ever been, spoiling them with gifts and embraces and amusing stories that make them laugh and laugh and laugh. Jaime has always been careful to maintain his distance, and now he is supposed to be their father, their only support. How is he supposed to play father to these children halfway across the world if he still can't even bring himself to see them as his own?

“Where is Joffrey? Is he coming as well?” Tommen flinches at Myrcella’s question, and the smile fades from his round face.

“He’s waiting for us on the ship.” It is not entirely a lie. He lured Joffrey away from Lady Margaery and Sandor Clegane with talk of Robert’s injury. But when they reached the ship, Joffrey threw a tantrum, demanding to see his father and demanding a crown swiftly be crafted for him to usher in his reign with. Imagining Joffrey as King proved so unsettling that Jaime knew he had to take drastic measures. He smacked the blunt of his sword across the back of Joffrey’s head—perhaps not a terribly fatherly thing to do, but what choice did he have?—and gave the ship’s captain extra coin to have the crew tie him up in the brig until they set sail. “He finished packing early.”

Myrcella’s eyes narrow at him. “And my father? He knows about this?”

“Of course he does.” That also isn’t a lie, not really. He is her true father, after all.

“Should Joffrey really be leaving now, when my father’s life is in such jeopardy?”

“The King is perfectly fine, Myrcella. He’s making a swift recovery. Don’t believe the rumors.” That is an actual lie. But he’s been lying to these children for so long that a few more untruths won’t hurt them. Every time he let them call him Uncle Jaime instead of father was a lie. Every day he allowed them to wear the name Baratheon and call themselves Prince and Princess was a lie.

With every step they take toward the ship, the closer he is to having to tell them the truth. He’s thought about how he ought to tell them. He’s imagined the moment a hundred times in his mind since Sansa showed up in his chambers, but none of the words he has come up with so far have felt right. It is probably a pointless activity anyways. No matter what words he uses to tell them the truth of their parentage, it will still inevitably ruin their lives. _But at least they will still have their lives._

“And Sansa?”

 _Her_ name knocks the breath out of him. The only way he has managed to pull this off so far, to steal these children away in the night, is by refusing to think of her. This is not how it was supposed to be. There should not have been a birth. Sansa should not be fighting for her life while Robert fights for his. Jaime was supposed to leave this place knowing the Queen was free of her husband, knowing she would take his power for her own and live the life his sister wanted so desperately but never quite managed. But he doesn’t know anything. He doesn’t know if Sansa is alive or dead. He doesn’t know if King Robert is alive or dead. And it’s killing him. He feels cruel for not going to see her or at least waiting to hear if she has survived or not, but it could ruin everything. If he stays here much longer and Ned Stark begins to suspect what has happened, if the man stumbles upon the confession Jaime left on his pillow, his and his children’s heads could soon be decorating the walls of the Red Keep.

He has no idea what he would say to Sansa anyways. The details of Robert’s fall are on the tip of his tongue, demanding to be recounted to someone—the sound of the King’s slurred words, the drool glistening on his chin as he clumsily charged forward, the shout that rang out when the boar’s horns pierced his fat belly, the way his red, red blood shone against the fresh grass. It was beautiful. It was perfect. But he doesn’t think Sansa would want to hear any of it. He can imagine her face twisting while he talks of gushing blood and the panicked cries of Lord Renly. He can imagine her lovely eyes clouding over with guilt and tears while he talks of Robert keeling forward and hacking blood on to the ground. Cersei would have demanded an exhaustive description of every moment until she could build the picture in her own mind, until it was almost like she had been there with him. But Sansa is not Cersei.

When he closes his eyes, he can see the boar’s tusks stabbing into the King again and can almost hear the screams that rang out through the woods. He wishes he could have shared that moment with his sister. He wishes he could have seen the ferocious, white grin stretch across her face and the flash of her emerald eyes when he told her the King was dead. He wishes he could have felt her nails digging deeper and deeper into his skin with every new, gruesome detail he offered her.

“Uncle Jaime? Did you hear me? What about Sansa? Is she okay?”

Myrcella stops walking and forces Jaime to meet her eyes. _No, we need to keep going. We can’t stop for anything,_ his mind screams at him, but it’s clear from her stance—back straight, arms crossed in front of her chest, mouth tight—that she will not move until he gives her an answer to her question.

“She’s fine.”

Her upper lip curls into a sneer that looks shockingly out of place on her face. In that moment, she is the very image of Cersei when Jaime said something she didn’t want to hear. “Are you lying to me?”

Jaime never gets the chance to answer. He notices the shadow approaching from the corner of his eye, but a fist slams into his jaw before he can react. The strike sends him staggering backwards until his shoulder crashes against one of the stone pillars of the Sea Gate. “Seven fucking hells,” he groans. “What in the gods—?” His voice fails him when he looks up and finds Ned Stark glowering back at him, his long, somber face contorted with a rage Jaime didn’t think the man capable of.

“How? How did you do it?” Starks hisses. “How did you convince her to go along with all this?”

Jaime can barely understand the question over the ringing in his ears. “How did I do _what_ , Stark?”

“How did you convince my daughter to go along with this?” he repeats. “What did you do to her? Did you threaten her? Did you _seduce_ her?”

 _What in the gods’ names has she told him?_ “Is Sansa okay?”

“ _Don’t_ say her name,” Ned roars, advancing on him like a wolf about to tear apart its prey. “Don’t you ever say her name again. A man like you doesn’t deserve to ever have her name on his lips. A man like you doesn’t deserve to even _think_ about my daughter, to _breathe_ the same air as her.”

“A man like me?” Jaime laughs bitterly. “A man like me? A man who obeys your fucking orders and runs away with his tail between his legs? A man who has done more to help your daughter in a moon’s turn than you’ve done for the last five fucking years?” Jaime closes the remaining distance between him and Ned Stark, refusing to look away from the man’s eyes. “And what kind of man is that exactly?”

“A _kingslayer_ ,” Ned growls through clenched teeth. “A traitor. A liar. A murderer.”

Jaime can’t deny he is all of those things and more but that doesn’t change the fact that he has done right by Sansa. He will never allow himself to feel guilt over Robert’s fall, not after what that man did to his sister and to sweet Sansa Stark.

“Let him go!” It’s a girl’s voice. For a moment he thinks it’s Myrcella’s, but it’s too commanding, too powerful. “Father, let him go.”

Ned looks as surprised by Arya Stark’s appearance as Jaime feels. The young girl is red in the face and panting, but there’s still a remarkably determined set to her jaw. “Arya, what are doing here? Why aren’t you with your sister?”

“Sansa wants to speak with Ser Jaime.”

“And you decided to _help_ her?” Ned nearly shouts. “Arya, have you lost your mind? She shouldn’t even be out of bed!”

The girl doesn’t cower under her father’s reproach. In fact, she only seems to stand taller. “I don’t take orders from the Queen lightly, Father.”

Ned Stark’s hands curl into fists, as he turns to face Jaime again. “I’ll not let her run away with you. I’ll not let her throw away everything for you. She would regret it for the rest of her life. Would you damn her to that fate? She’ll hate you once she knows the truth.”

 _Run away with me?_ “I have no idea what you’re—”

“Is Sansa coming with us?” Tommen’s voice is heartbreakingly hopeful. The two of them— _his son and daughter_ —look anxious, their eyes flitting from him to Ned to Arya and back again. “So she’s okay then? She had the baby?”

“Sansa is not going anywhere,” Ned answers Tommen, as gently as he seems to be able to manage at the moment. “But yes, she had the baby, and she is okay. Or she was, before she was apparently allowed to go traipsing about the castle.”

“Where is she?” Jaime directs toward Arya. None of this makes sense, but if Sansa wants to see him, he will certainly not refuse her. “Where is Sansa right now?”

“Come with me.” Arya turns on her heel, and Jaime wastes no time following after her. He can hear the footsteps of the children and a furious Ned Stark behind him, but the only thing on his mind is _Sansa_.

When they reach an abandoned alley, Jaime’s heart begins to pound. His eyes search for any sign of her, for the spark of her hair in the moonlight, but there is only darkness. “Where is she?”

Before Arya can answer, her father interjects, “I am not about to leave you alone with my daughter! She is good and she is kind, and _you_ have corrupted her. You have convinced her to go against her very nature. Did you ask her to run away with you? Did you ask her to help you carry out this evil and then steal away with you in the night? Well, you will be disappointed, Ser, because my daughter will never leave her children, not for someone like _you._ ”

Jaime keeps his eyes focused on his own hands and forces himself to bite back the words that first spring to his mind. _She came to me. She wanted me. She put the phial of poison in my hand and asked me to kill her husband._ “She has no plans to run away with me, Stark,” he says instead. “And I would never ask her to. I am simply doing as you wished.” _So shut your fucking mouth already._

“Why are we running away?” Myrcella asks, a nervous quiver in her voice. “Where are we going? What is going on? What has Jaime done? I don’t understand what’s happening.” Jaime is terrified Ned Stark will answer her honestly— _Your mother fucked her own brother and begat you. You are bastards borne of incest and treason, and you are running away in order to keep your heads_ —but he remains mercifully silent.

“Oh, don’t let my father make you nervous, Cella.” Sansa’s gentle voice eases some of the dread building in Jaime’s chest. When he turns, he sees her approaching, balanced in one of Robert’s bastard’s arms. It is middle of the night, but her sky blue eyes and copper hair defy the darkness. “He has simply misunderstood the situation, that’s all. No one is running away, I assure you. Ser Jaime is only taking you to Casterly Rock for a time. If he had done anything wrong, do you think I, as the Queen, would let him leave?”

Myrcella’s posture relaxes and some of the fear fades from her eyes. Jaime isn’t sure if she is convinced by Sansa’s lies or if she just grateful for the Queen’s calming presence. “Are you well, Sansa?”

“Very well,” Sansa says with a small smile. “I have a daughter.”

Matching grins appear on Tommen and Myrcella’s faces. “I _knew_ you would have a girl!” Myrcella exclaims. “Does she have a name yet?”

“Lyanna.” Jaime hardly remembers the Stark girl—he had eyes for few but his sister back then—but the name still sends a shiver down his spine. He thinks she must be the reason Ned Stark has assumed his daughter is running away.

“Sansa, you need to be back in—”

“Gendry, if you could set me down now, please.” The polite order cuts off her father’s thought. Robert’s bastard is quick to comply and carefully lowers the Queen to her feet. The moment the boy removes his large hands from her shoulders, she sways for a moment and then stumbles forward. She nearly falls on her face, but Jaime instinctively reaches out to catch her by the waist and steady her.

Ned looks enraged by their contact. “Get your hands off my daughter, Kingslayer.”

Before Jaime can snap back at him— _Would you rather me have let your precious daughter split her head open on the stone, Stark?—_ Sansa speaks again. “Father, Ser Barristan is waiting for you just around the corner with Jeyne. I fear if you don’t arrive soon, he will grow too nervous to follow my request for some privacy and stumble upon this scene. If you could go to—”

“I’m not leaving you with _him_ , Sansa,” Ned counters. “You need to be back in bed. You can barely stand.”

“Oh, I’m perfectly fine,” she claims, though that is clearly far from the truth. “You’re wrong about this, Father. I have no intention of running away with Ser Jaime. My children are here. My family is here. My people are here. Do you think I would leave you? I’m not going anywhere, and I am going to need you to trust me. Please, Father?” Her eyes widen into a pair of perfect, innocent blue pools Jaime isn’t sure any man could resist. “Arya, could you take Tommen and Myrcella with you? We’ll only need a moment.”

Arya nods and manages to herd Tommen, Myrcella, and Gendry away even though all three practically tower over the small Stark girl. Ned, on the other hand, remains completely still. His breathing is heavy and his fingers are flexing dangerously at his sides. More than once, Jaime has noticed Stark reach for the pommel of his sword, only to grudgingly pull away at the last moment. “Sansa, I don’t feel right about this.”

“I only need a moment. Just a moment. I promise.” When he still doesn’t move, she repeats the words. “I promise.”

Ned lets out a long breath and his shoulders fall in obvious defeat. “I will be just around the corner. If he—if he—”

“I’ll scream if he does,” Sansa cuts in. “But he won’t.”

Ned doesn’t say anything, just stares back at Sansa. Their eyes are locked together, and Jaime knows they are silently communicating something to each other he doesn’t understand. It feels like he is intruding on a private moment. He is almost about to offer to leave when Ned says, “The King is dead. I suspect it will bring you both great joy to hear it.” There is no inflection in his voice, but there is sadness in his eyes.

“Death never brings me joy, Father.”

“I hope it doesn’t. My sweet Sansa.” He sighs and scrubs at his beard before peering over his daughter at Jaime. “I have your signed confession, Kingslayer. If you do anything to harm her, I will destroy you without hesitation.” With that, he gives Sansa a terse nod and walks away, the edge of his dark cloak disappearing behind the wall.

He finds himself at a loss for words now that they are alone. It is difficult to focus on much of anything aside from the slope of her hips under his hands and the stunning blue of her eyes when she turns to face him. “Oh dear,” she whispers, reaching forward. Her fingertips brush softly over where Ned’s fist connected with his jaw, and he can’t stop himself from wincing. “I’m sorry about this. If I had known—”

“It’s good to see you,” he interrupts. “Some were saying you had died in the birthing bed.”

“But here I am,” she says, leaning closer to him. “You left a confession?”

“In my chambers. It was meant for you, but it seems your father had the good fortune of finding it first,” Jaime grumbles. “But I left another letter in the room I suspect your father did not manage to find.”

“Another letter?”

“To my brother, Tyrion,” he explains. “I left it under the pallet. I was hoping you would think to look there. My brother is my closest companion, but I feared if I sent him a letter before now it would be intercepted and—”

“I’ll see it gets to him,” she promises. “It will be the first thing I do.”

 _Gods, she’s a sweet girl._ “Thank you, Sansa.”

“Anything, Jaime,” she whispers back. She stares up at him and grins, and he finds himself thinking of all the men who will get lost in those blue eyes. He hates them nearly as much as he envies them. “Where is Joffrey? You’re taking him as well, yes?”

Jaime groans. “Unfortunately, yes. He was demanding to see Robert, so I knocked him upside the head with my sword when we reached the ship and paid the crew to tie him up in the brig. I’m sure he has woken up by now and is threatening to do some rather ghastly things to the lot of them with that ridiculous sword of his. What is it again? Widow’s Bane?”

The giggle that elicits from her makes his stomach flip in a way he can’t remember it doing since his youth. He thinks it might be the first time he’s really heard her laugh, and the sound of it is beautiful. There’s a lightness to it that catches him by surprise. It is so different from Cersei’s laugh, which always seemed more intended to hurt than anything else. “Widow’s Wail,” she corrects. “He sorely lacks in creativity, doesn’t he?”

“That and other things,” he agrees. “You’re a fool for coming to see me, you know that? What is the honorable Ser Barristan going to think of this excursion of yours?”

“I told him the sea calms me,” she says. “I told him I needed a moment to myself by the Sea Gate to mourn my loving husband.”

Jaime snorts. “Loving husband? And you couldn’t have just looked out a window?”

Sansa rolls her eyes, though not unkindly. “Perhaps it was not my best lie. I was not exactly thinking clearly at the time. I fear I have had a bit too much milk of the poppy for someone my size.”

Jaime shrugs and grips her hips just a little bit tighter. “Ser Barristan won’t question it. The man is dreadfully dutiful. But you really ought to be in bed.”

She shakes her head and rests her palms against his chest. “I couldn’t stay in that bed a moment longer. I had to see you. I was in so much pain, Jaime. I truly thought I was going to die. I was too weak to push, and it was too much for me to bear, and I—I went away inside, like I used to do when Robert came to my bed. I would always imagine I was in Winterfell again, safe behind the walls with my family. But I had a different dream this time, if it was a dream at all. We were in Lys, I think. Your skin was golden, and I was happy, and we were free. We were just two people, instead of a Queen and a knight. Gods, it felt so good not to have a crown on my head. And you—you kept calling me your love and—”

“Sansa—”

“I love you, Jaime,” she declares before he can tell her to stop, before he can insist on how much better off she’ll be without him. “We’ll—we’ll never have that place in Lys, I know that. I’ll probably never even see you again. But I wanted you to know before you left. You saved me, and I love you.”

“Sansa, you don’t mean that.”

“But I do,” she maintains, digging her fingertips into his doublet. “I almost gave up on it, on ever feeling good. I thought I would spend the rest of my life crushed under the weight of that man. But then I noticed the way you looked at him when he would leave my chambers at night or mutter something vicious about me under his breath. You didn’t look away like everyone else. You glared and you scowled and you weren’t afraid to show just how much you hated him. I—I suspect now that wasn’t for me, that it was for your sister, but I don’t care because it gave me hope. When I snuck into your room that night, I knew you wouldn’t turn me away. I knew you would understand why I needed this, and I knew you would kill him. You killed him, and you saved me, Jaime. And that night in the godswood, when you—when we were together,” she continues, blushing a rather alarming shade of scarlet, “That gave me hope, too. Hope that someday I could be with someone like you, someone who made me feel _good_. Even if you can’t love me back, I still wanted you to know that before you left.”

The Queen Sansa he has come to know is a guarded woman. She is a woman who wears empty smiles and tells pretty, flattering lies and keeps everyone around her at arm’s length without them ever even realizing it. The Sansa looking at him now is not that same woman. Her face is breathtakingly expressive and alive with a thousand emotions. There are dark circles under her eyes, her skin is worryingly pale, and sweat clings to her forehead, but he’s never seen her look more beautiful.

He leans forward without thinking, and their lips collide. It is a chaste kiss, the barest of touches, but her entire body sighs into it. When he wraps his arms around her waist, she presses against him and threads her fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck. He deepens the kiss, and she makes a delicious little moan that stirs the fire building in his gut. He can feel her breasts pressing against his chest and her tongue dancing with his own, but mostly he focuses how well they seem to fit together. Cersei was his mirror image. They came into the world together, his hand wrapped around her ankle. When she pressed against him that first time, like Sansa is pressing against him now, he knew they were made for each other, that no other woman would ever fit against him the way Cersei did.

But Sansa fits and that terrifies him. Sansa loves him and that terrifies him too. He knows she loves him, he can tell by the way she collapses into his embrace that she means it. This isn’t a childish fantasy. This isn’t the girl who imagined herself in love with Joffrey because on the surface he was everything she thought she wanted. No, when he pulls away and looks into her eyes, he knows this is real. He knows she has agonized over these feelings, and he knows she is prepared to let him and those feelings go for the sake of her children and her kingdom.

The way she looks at him makes his heart swell. Since the day Cersei died, he has felt empty. Nothing has been able to ease the ache of the hole her death left in him, but the way Sansa is looking at him suddenly makes his chest feel full to bursting. There is unguarded admiration in her eyes, like he is some knight who has stepped straight out of a song. _True knights protect the innocent above all else, and that is all I am asking you do, Ser Jaime._ Is that what she thinks he is? A true knight? A true knight is what he has wanted to be for as long as he can remember—a man who is unassailable with a sword in his hands, a man who is admired and remembered by the people, a man who keeps his vows. But that is not who he is. A true knight would deserve Sansa’s love, and he never will.

It is Cersei who will haunt his dreams when he escapes across the Narrow Sea. It is Cersei’s voice he will hear in his ears at night, Cersei’s hands he will feel on his body, and Cersei’s eyes he will see when he closes his own. This lovely girl will pine for a man whose heart she never had because it already belonged to a ghost.

“I know you have to leave, but now I’ll always have this moment,” she says, when he remains silent. “And that will be enough.”

That just about breaks him. What she’s feeling might be love, but it’s only because she doesn’t know the truth. Though it was taboo, though it would have been considered wrong by so many, Cersei’s love never left him guilty. He and Cersei _knew_ other. They saw each other for what they were. He knew her casual cruelty as well as he knew her unparalleled beauty. He knew her childish petulance as well as he knew her remarkable ambition. He knew her brutal barbs and insults as well as he knew the sweetness of her kisses. And Cersei knew him.

Sansa doesn’t know him. She sees his affair with Cersei as brave, as romantic and admirably reckless, as a symbol of his willingness to fight for someone he loves. And, perhaps, their love was brave in its own way, but it was also spiteful and selfish and kept both of them from ever growing into the people they wanted to be. And Sansa has no idea the lengths Jaime is truly willing to go to for love. Sansa can’t really love him, because she doesn’t really know him, and that almost makes him want to weep.

“Your brother didn’t fall. I pushed him.”

The reaction is abrupt and painful to watch. The smile disappears from her lips, leaving a grimace in its place. The light leaves her eyes, and any color that was left drains rapidly from her face. “What did you just say?”

“Bran. The young one. He was climbing around the castle, around Winterfell, and he saw Cersei and me together, in a compromising position. If he had said anything, it would have been both our heads—”

“So you tried to kill him?” Sansa hisses. “So you pushed a _child_ to his death?”

He instantly wants to take it back. He wants to see the love in her eyes again. He wants to feel like a true knight again. But it would all be a lie, and he has lived too many of those for one lifetime. When he leaves Westeros, he wants to leave the truth behind him, for better or for worse. “I had to protect my sister.”

Her eyes go impossibly wide, and her entire body begins to tremble in his arms. He expects her to scream at him. He expects her to break down crying. He expects her call out for her father and demand Stark take off his head with that ridiculous longsword he carries around with such pride. “Tommen loves animals,” she says instead. “He loves them, and he’s good with them. They make him happy. He needs something to take care of as much as he needs someone to take care of him. Make sure he always has animals. Kittens or puppies or birds or—or an entire damn menagerie if you can manage it.”

"Sansa, what are you—?”

“Myrcella is brilliant. Wherever you go, you shouldn’t call attention to yourself, I know, but a simple life will bore her. She needs challenges. Make sure she has books, a library full of books. And find someone to continue her lessons with the harp. She’s really very talented. She would have made for an amazing queen.”

“Sansa—”

“Protect them both from Joffrey. He’s a cruel boy, and I fear his chance at power being torn away from him right when it was finally in his reach will only make him crueler. Try to make him a better man, and if you can’t, put Myrcella and Tommen’s safety above all else.”

 _What in the seven hells is she doing? Did she hear what I said?_ “Sansa, why are you telling me this? I just said—”

“I heard what you said, Jaime! I bloody heard what you said!” she shouts, tears springing free from her eyes. “You tried to murder an innocent child. My brother wanted to be a knight, you know. He wanted to be a knight like you someday, and you stole that from him forever, because he—because he had the misfortune to stumble upon your _treason_."

“I loved her—”

“That’s _not_ love,” she snaps. “And don’t you dare tell me that I don’t understand or that I don’t know what love is. It’s you who doesn’t understand, if you think love is capable of something so vile. Gods, I’m such a fool. I’m the same bloody fool I was at three-and-ten. I thought her so beautiful I couldn’t see the obvious cruelty in her smiles or the disdain in her eyes. I thought her words so lovely I didn't realize every one of them was designed to mock me. There was darkness in your sister. I saw it when she killed my wolf, but I made myself forget because I didn’t want anything ruining it. I thought I was smarter than that now, but I’m only making the same mistakes all over again. The darkness is in you, too. I can see it now. You’re—you’re a monster just like she was. What you two shared wasn’t love, it was destruction. You’re a monster, just like your vile son and your vile sister. You’re all monsters.”

 _You’re a monster._ A monster is certainly what he feels like in that moment. Whatever high Robert’s death had left with him has vanished at her condemnation. “Sansa—”

“Damn you, Jaime. Just let me talk about the children, about Myrcella and Tommen,” she pleads. “They are the only thing keeping me from calling over my father and demanding your execution. I can’t believe I thought I loved you. I can’t believe—I can’t believe I let you _touch_ me.” Revulsion mars her lovely face, and she abruptly seems to remember his hands are still on her. “Let me go!” she snaps, ripping herself out her arms with such force she lurches backwards and slams into the wall behind them with a sickening thud.

His first instinct is to help her, but when he takes a step forward, she holds out her arms and cries, “Stay away from me! Don’t touch me! Stay away from me! I _hate_ you.” He has brought her from love to hate in mere seconds. _I’m sure few other great knights can boast such a feat_ , he thinks miserably.

Blood trickles from the back of her head down her long neck, and her body crumbles in on itself. The strong, composed Queen he knows is gone. The confident, emotional woman she was only a moment ago is gone. In front of him, now rests a girl instead of a woman—weak and fragile and so terribly sad. This is what he has made of her. _I should have never touched her. I should never have let her believe I was anything but a monster._ He lifts his hand and pulls out the dagger tucked into his belt. He leans forward and places the silver blade at her feet. “If it's what you feel you must do—”

“What is this?” she sneers, kicking the blade away from her as if it is poisonous. “What are you trying to do? Make me a murderer like you? Get out of my castle and never come back. Take care of those children and make sure they grow into better people than you and your sister if you do not wish to be condemned to all seven hells for what you’ve done.”

“I’m sorry, Sansa.”

“You’re not sorry at all,” she retorts. “You’re not sorry for any of it, are you? You would do it all again.”

In truth, he has never thought much about Bran Stark since that day, certainly not long enough to ever feel truly guilty about the boy’s fate. Though he would like to think, if given the chance, he would make a different choice now, he’s not sure he would. He suspects he would burn down the entire kingdom just for the chance to see his sister again. “I’m sorry for making you feel this way.” That much, at least, is true.

“I should have known better,” she whispers. “I thought I was through falling in love with golden monsters. I should have known better.”

 _This isn’t your fault. Don’t blame yourself_ , he wants to tell her, but he knows she would only balk at his advice. The pathetic little sobs that escape her lips make him remember just how young Sansa Stark is. At seven-and-ten, he still had dreams. He had dreams of being a knight like Arthur Dayne, he had dreams of his love for Cersei being accepted and even admired by the people of the Seven Kingdoms, and he had dreams of marrying her in front of the entire world. After all Sansa has seen, she still had dreams, and he has shattered them with two short sentences— _Your brother didn’t fall. I pushed him._ The confession was designed to set her free from him, but now he thinks maybe something more self-seeking had been behind it. _I wanted her to know me and love me anyways. I’ve destroyed her because I wanted her to know me._

“I should have stopped dreaming. I should have been—I should have been smarter than this,” she mutters to herself. “Robert ordered the deaths of the Targaryen children, and I was disgusted. But not even he would have pushed a child from a window.”

 _He would have pushed a hundred children for even the slimmest chance at getting between Lyanna Stark’s legs_ , Jaime almost snaps. _He would have done the same for a girl he barely even knew, a girl who didn’t even love him back._ But he bites his tongue. If Sansa wants to cast him down with the likes of Robert Baratheon, he’s not going to stop her. Maybe now she can erase him and Robert from her mind and start new. Maybe she’ll even be able to convince herself he was solely to blame for Robert’s death. Maybe she’ll be able to live without that guilt in her heart, and maybe she’ll be able to give that heart to another.

He wants to say something, _anything_ to ease her pain, but Ned Stark rounds the corner before he can speak another word. The moment he sees the blood clinging to his daughter’s cloak, his eyes go dark and his hand flies up to his draw his sword. “Don’t, Father, please don’t,” Sansa begs. “Father, don’t hurt him.”

“What have you done?” Ned hisses at Jaime. “Did you _push_ her? What kind of monster are you?” The blade of longsword gleams magnificently in the moonlight. The way it shines is all Jaime can focus on, as Ned advances toward him. He can’t even bring himself to draw his own sword to defend himself.

“Father, _please_.” Sansa manages to lift herself back to her feet and wrap her arms around her father’s neck. She places her body between them, and Jaime knows it is the only thing keeping him alive. “Let him take the children. Rickard will be the King, and we’ll never have to see him again.”

“What did he do to you, my love?”

“It doesn’t matter,” she whispers back. “Please, Father, let’s just leave. Please.”

Ned folds under her pleas and reluctantly sheathes his sword. “Never come back here, do you hear me? If you ever dare come back here, I will see that you finally face justice for your crimes, Kingslayer. Run. Now. Before I change my mind.”

There are tears burning around the rims of his eyes. Ned Stark’s hatred has no effect on him, but the painful blend of fury and misery on Sansa’s face does. “Sansa—”

“Your letter will be delivered, even if you don’t deserve it,” she snaps at him. “Father, I’d like to leave now.” When she turns her head back to Ned, Jaime knows that was the last time he will ever see her eyes.

Ned Stark sweeps his daughter into his arms and turns his back on Jaime. He watches them leave, lingering on the way Sansa’s hair glows and the way, even now, she manages to keep her head held high. He has hurt her, but he has not destroyed her. He is confident one day he will fade from her mind completely, as he should.

“Goodbye,” he whispers, as she disappears from his sight.

It is the last time he will ever speak to her, see her, touch her, and he finds himself wondering if this is what love really is, if it’s letting someone go instead of holding to them tighter. He and Cersei were always trying to hold each other tighter. Nothing could keep them apart, not marriages or vows or the bad luck of an adventurous child. And perhaps that wasn’t a good thing, perhaps that was what made them as ugly as Sansa seems to think they were, the fact that they couldn’t let go.

“Are you okay, Uncle Jaime?” Tommen asks, moving cautiously toward him.

“Sansa said you were waiting for us,” Myrcella adds. “She said it was time for us to leave. She was crying.”

 _Take care of those children and make sure they grow into better people than you and your sister if you do not wish to be condemned to all seven hells for what you’ve done._ “She’s just going to miss you, is all. Let’s go. It’s time for our journey to begin.”

The three of them begin their trek toward the ship. Tommen skips ahead, but Myrcella remains by his side, occasionally looking up at him. When Tommen is out of earshot, she bites her lip and asks, “Did you love her? Did you love Sansa?”

 _No. I only loved Cersei. I only loved your mother._ That is almost his answer, but he is no longer so sure it is the truth. He suspects if he did not love Sansa Stark, it would not feel like his heart is breaking in his chest. He suspects if he did not love Sansa Stark, he never would have been able to let her go.

“I have much to tell you, Myrcella,” he sighs. “And I vow I will tell you all of it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now there's just the epilogue left! I'll try to have it up next Sunday.
> 
> I want to say thank you all so much for reading! I really appreciate it and would love to hear what you think.


	12. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The bells are ringing. The sound pervades every corner of the Red Keep, even the empty chambers tucked away in the back of the castle where she sits now, idly dragging her fingertips through the thick layer of dust on the floor.

The bells are ringing. The sound pervades every corner of the Red Keep, even the empty chambers tucked away in the back of the castle where she sits now, idly dragging her fingertips through the thick layer of dust on the floor. The room somehow seems more dangerous stripped of the Kingslayer’s things—without his white cloak spread out across a chair, without his sword leaning against the crimson blankets of his bed, without his golden armor gleaming in the soft light of the single window. With the window boarded up, the room sits in complete darkness. The bare, gray walls are oddly imposing even in the blackness, and the stone floor is always cold to the touch.

On her orders, her men tore apart the room, leaving no corner unexplored. Nothing had been found, of course. She took great care to remove the Kingslayer’s sole parting gift first—a folded piece of parchment addressed to Tyrion Lannister—before anyone but she and Father knew he was gone at all.

She isn’t sure why she chooses to hide away here, in this dark, dirty room that belonged to such a contemptible man. But when she can’t fake another smile or force any more sweet words from her lips, it is this room she finds herself running to.

“The bells are ringing, Your Grace.”

She pulls her hand away from the floor and frowns. It is too dark to see his face, but she recognizes the voice and the short, slender frame leaning in the doorway. “You don’t say?” she drones. She stands and slaps her hands together, watching the dust cloud around them and barely resisting the urge to wipe her dirty hands across the front of her dress. “I’m quite certain they can hear them all the way in the Vale, Lord Baelish.”

“Perhaps,” Petyr says, his white teeth flashing from the shadows. “But you asked for them specifically, if I recall correctly.”

“I did, didn’t I?” It is a decision she regrets now. She had hoped the bells would signal her excitement for the Northron party’s return, even if her Father would not be among them. Instead, it only feels like she’s celebrating when she ought to be mourning. Her rise to power meant she couldn’t leave the Red Keep to travel with Arya and Father to Winterfell for Robb’s wedding. It meant she couldn’t see Mother or Robb or Bran or Rickon again.

And she knows she won’t be seeing Arya or Father again any time soon. She asked her father to relinquish his title as Hand and return home. The day he and Arya left, she wrote to Mother, pleading with her to make Father see reason and stay in Winterfell where he would be happy instead of returning to King's Landing despite her orders. She knows he wanted to go home more than anything, and things hadn’t been the same between them since the night Jaime left. He never asked her about what happened, never asked her if she had any involvement in Robert’s death or the Kingslayer’s escape, and never mentioned her mumbled confession, but she could see his suspicions plainly. It proved too difficult to leave the memory of Robert and Jaime behind her and rule as a new woman with her father’s disappointed eyes following her every step. But now she finds herself praying under her breath he comes through the gates. She imagines him kneeling before her, holding her hands between his, and saying that even if she doesn’t want him as Hand, he won’t leave her to do this alone.

The white and gray banners of her father’s men—now _her_ men—make her chest tighten. She thinks they must have been hanging all across Winterfell for Robb’s wedding. They would have looked beautiful against the dark stone and brilliant white snow.

Petyr seems to sense her melancholy, because he pouts his lips slightly and asks, “Do you miss your home, Your Grace?”

“Of course I do, Lord Baelish.”

“Lord _Hand_ , you mean,” he corrects genially.

_Only if my father does not come back._ “Do you miss _your_ home, Petyr?”

Petyr’s smile falters for a moment. She delights in his brief loss of control. It is only these rare moments that allow her to convince herself she has not gotten in over her head with this man. “Never. There is not much there to miss but stones and toothless women.” Petyr chuckles lightly and rests his hand on her shoulder. It might have been a comforting gesture from another man, but the press of his fingertips makes her skin crawl. “You’ll see them again soon, Your Grace, at your own wedding.”

_At your own wedding._ Since her father left, Petyr has tried to push a staggering number of men at her. She had been sure he would suggest himself as her new king the moment Robert fell and Father was not there to stop him, but the idea has not yet crossed lips. _Once you know what a man wants, you own him._ She’s never been completely sure of what Petyr wants, and now she is even less sure than she had been before.

What surprised her even more than Petyr’s apparent lack of interest in her hand was that a few of the names Petyr suggested actually appealed to her—sweet and pious Willas Tyrell, handsome and admired Harrion Karstark, and shy but capable Quentyn Martell. She thought the last thing she would want after Robert’s death and Jaime’s devastating confession was another husband, another man to break her heart, but with her family all in Winterfell, Jeyne pregnant and happily married, Myrcella and Tommen disappeared to some land across the Narrow Sea, and Margaery back in Highgarden, she has found herself terribly lonely. Rickard and Lyanna are the only things keeping her going, and she thinks it would be nice to be able to share their sweet smiles and amusing antics with someone other than Petyr.

“Your dress is awfully filthy, Your Grace. It’s distracting.”

She tried to keep her grimy hands away from the dress, but there are now unsightly streaks down the front of it regardless. She’s quite sure the back of her dress is just as bad, if not worse. She shakes out her skirts, but it has little effect. “Yes, well, perhaps it was not very queenly of me to sit on a dusty floor.”

Petyr’s eyes narrow slightly. Her voice is light, but he is clearly not amused. She also relishes these moments, when she disappoints him and proves herself not to be the perfect queen he has tried to craft her into over the years. She loves these moments nearly as much as she loves the moments when he looks at her with something akin to worship in his eyes, when she correctly picks out a dangerous lord’s motivations or soothes an indignant lady’s worries with a simple smile and gentle touch of her hand.

The gates are open, and the Northron party grows closer with each breath she takes. She tries to mask her emotions, but she can feel her eyes frantically searching the ranks of men for her father on his sturdy, brown horse. He is nowhere to be found. None of her family is anywhere to be found, and it feels like her heart is breaking in her chest.

Tears are pooling in her eyes, making it difficult to see much of anything. She does her best not to let any of them fall. She has no desire to see the inevitable disgust in Petyr’s eyes at her weakness or to make her subjects think she expected anything different from the Winterfell party’s return. It will not do well to have spurious whispers spread that her father has abandoned her.

But she will have to address them. It is a Queen’s duty to personally welcome her people into her castle, but she doesn’t trust her voice not to waver. She works to think up some excuse to flee the scene without speaking, some mysterious, feigned illness they won’t question, but a flash of black hair makes her mind go blank and her jaw fall open before she can. The girl is moving toward her as quickly as is possible without breaking into a sprint. Her eyes are a familiar, brilliant gray, but her skin is darker than Sansa remembers, no doubt from her months of travel.

“Sister.” The girl—no, the woman, it would seem by the way her muddy breeches now cling to rounded hips—folds her arms in front of her stomach and bows at the waist like a man would. “You look stunned.”

“Arya,” Sansa chokes, suddenly not caring who sees her cry. Of all her family, Arya is perhaps the person, aside from Mother, she most hoped would walk through the gates but least expected. “You’ve returned.”

A smirk stretches across Arya’s lips. “I have.”

Sansa lifts her arms to embrace her but stops short when she notices Arya’s eyes flicker to the side, to where Robert’s oldest bastard stands with his blue eyes opened wide in astonishment that could rival Sansa’s own. “Oh,” she whispers, her arms falling back to her sides. “Arya,” she begins, leaning forward to whisper in her sister’s ear, “If you’ve returned for Gendry, you must know that I would allow you to bring him North and that he would be more than happy to follow you all the way to Asshai if you wished it of him.”

Arya furrows her brow and looks at Sansa with a bemused, almost insulted expression. “I did not return for Gendry,” she whispers back. “I returned for you. Did you think I would leave you to do this alone? Even if Father cannot understand, I do. I would have killed that man a thousand times over if you asked it of me.”

Sansa can’t suppress the sob that escapes her lips, as she throws her arms around her sister and holds her close. Arya tenses and only weakly returns the embrace, but Sansa doesn’t care. If she had her way, she’d never let Arya go.

 

* * *

 

Joffrey has been missing for nearly a moon’s turn when Jaime finally gives up hope on ever finding the boy. The empty bed taunts him from the corner of the small, damp room he and Joffrey once shared. It makes him feel like a failure.

_Make Joffrey a better man_. That is what _she_ implored him to do. And he thinks it’s what Cersei would have wanted as well. Joffrey had always been her favorite. She would despise Jaime for losing him to the fragrant but deceptively dangerous streets of Lys.

“I did my best,” he mumbles, as he rips the now dusty blankets from Joffrey’s abandoned bed. None of Cersei’s children— _his_ children, he still has to remind himself sometimes—had taken particularly well to the truth of their parentage, to the revelation that they would never return to King’s Landing and their former lives again. Myrcella did little to hide her disgust and Tommen had cried and cried and cried, but Joffrey’s reaction had been the most disturbing. There was no rage in Joffrey’s eyes, no explosive temper tantrums like Jaime had expected. Instead, the boy simply refused to believe anything Jaime told him. Instead, he continued to insist on returning to King’s Landing and claiming the crown and throne and beautiful queen that were undoubtedly still waiting for him there.

“He boarded a ship,” Myrcella says from his door, arms crossed in front of her chest. Her unimpressed green eyes linger on the bare bed. “They told him they would bring him back to King’s Landing and make him a great king. That’s what the whores at the port are saying. He was so sure of himself that he didn’t even realize they were laughing at him. There’s no telling what they expected to do with him, what they _are_ doing with him, but I rather doubt they have any plans to put a crown on his head.”

Jaime’s gut twists, more from the indifference in Myrcella’s voice than the possible gruesome fates of his eldest son. Neither Tommen nor Myrcella have shown concern over Joffrey’s disappearance, and he wonders whose fault it is that Joffrey turned out to be such a monster. “That’s what the whores told you, huh?”

“They see everything because everyone underestimates them.” The hint of admiration in her tone makes his stomach coil even tighter. Lys has changed Myrcella.

They have fallen into a comfortable, if simple, life in Lys. Their house is small and often damp with humidity, but it is close to the azure shore and the large windows allow the magnificent, sweet-smelling breezes of the city to flow through the rooms freely. Lys is strikingly different from King’s Landing, but the three of them are doing their best to adjust.

It is a city concerned chiefly with pleasure. Beautiful women and men strut across the crowded streets adorned in bright silks and thin gauzes that do little to hide the soft curves of the women and the muscular lines of the men. Beauty is currency in Lys, and Myrcella has proven the richest of the displaced Lannister clan, even with her hair dyed black as night. They cannot even walk through the marketplace without someone fawning over her and claiming he or she can make her into the most sought out courtesan in the East. _Men and women will shower you with gold for only one touch of your lips,_ a strange man with strange tattoos curling across his entire body had claimed just yesterday. _They will speak of your emerald eyes and raven hair even when the sands of time claim your body. They will whisper your name until the end days, my beautiful girl._

Jaime had flashed his sword and scared the man off quickly enough, making note to watch the girl—his daughter—more closely in the future. But it didn’t sit well with him that she has clearly been growing closer with the whores at the Lyseni port, a place where both crude sailors and refined foreign princes frequent.

“I would prefer you stay away from that crowd, Myrcella.”

“Kerra. That’s my name now, remember? And yours is Silas.”

_Silas._ He hates the name. It feels wrong whenever somebody utters it, even more when it passes his own lips. Jaime is what Cersei sighed when his lips dragged across her skin, Jaime is what Cersei panted when he parted her thighs, Jaime is what Cersei screamed out whenever he made her body tense and quiver like a drawn bow. Silas has never loved. Silas is not the man Cersei loved. Silas is a stranger.

“My name is Father to you,” he counters.

“Funny, you never wanted to be called such a thing before.” The quick, sharp retort surprises him. Myrcella has taken the best to their new home. She has molded a new person around the name Kerra. But what she doesn’t seem to realize is the more she grows into Kerra, the most she grows into her mother. He sees Cersei in the way her jaw clenches when she’s being stubborn, he sees Cersei in the way she flutters her lashes when she wants something from a man, and he sees Cersei in the flash of ambition in her eyes every time someone offers to make her the most powerful courtesan in the East.

“Myrcella—”

“ _Kerra_ ,” she corrects through clenched teeth. “And this isn’t Westeros. Whores hold power here, the ones who are free at least. They are not so looked down upon. Some, especially the ones in Braavos, are even _admired_ and sought out as much for their counsel as they are for their bodies. Courtesans, they call them.”

“Yes, Cella, I’ve heard the word often enough,” he grumbles. “Don’t let them fool you. They only—”

“I am not a woman easily fooled, _Father_.” And there is it is again. Cersei. In her narrowed eyes, in her balled up fists, in the impossible straightness of her back, and in her pursed, red lips. There is little of him in her, but he thinks he loves her best for that. She has her mother’s fire, but it is tempered enough to allow her to wield it more effectively than Cersei could ever manage. He wants to protect her, but, like Cersei, he suspects she would have little use for his protection.

Seeing Myrcella act so like her mother fills him with longing. It makes him long for Casterly Rock. It makes him long for the kiss of his sweet sister’s lips. It makes him long to feel Cersei's body pressed so perfectly against his own, like he remembers from when she used to sneak into his room as children, before kings and a war tore them apart.

It is his golden sister he longs for, but it is a redheaded whore he fucks. Who Silas fucks, at least. Never Jaime.

She is a sweet girl, with foggy blue eyes and a mysterious scar she refuses to explain running along her neck. She’s shy and blushes more than any whore ought to. She makes bawdy jests at times, but they are often more awkward than amusing, and it is clear enough they do not come naturally to her.

They never fuck in the dark, and they never fuck facing each other. He prefers to stare at the colors of her hair when he trusts inside her. He likes the way the light catches the warm golds and different shades of red that run throughout her thick locks. If the lights shine too brightly, the colors sometimes appear too dull, too muted, but if only a few candles are lit, as he insists upon, sometimes he can fool himself.

“Who is it you imagine when we are together?” she purrs in an accent he can’t quite place one night. It’s certainly not Westerosi, and he’s been in Lys long enough to recognize it’s not Lyseni either. He suspects there’s an interesting story behind this girl, but he’s never felt compelled to ask her for it. “Did you leave some great love behind when you came here?”

_My great love died._ It is not Cersei he imagines when he fucks her, never Cersei. There is no one who could fit against him so well that he could imagine her Cersei, even for a moment. And he knows his sister would curse him to all the seven hells if he ever dared imagine another woman her equal, if he ever dared sully the memory of their skin pressed against each other’s with another woman’s flesh.

“I lusted after a queen once,” he admits, caught off guard by his own honesty. _I loved a queen once_ , he almost says, but even the thought feels like an infidelity, because Cersei was never _queen_ to him, Cersei was always _sister_ —Sansa is _queen_ , and he cannot love both women. “A queen whose love I could never deserve. You remind me of her.”

The girl blushes a deep shade of red. “I remind you of a _queen_?”

“A bit, yes.”

A grin comes to her face, revealing the set of crooked but white teeth behind her lips. “What was her name?”

His arousal abruptly begins to fade. He doesn’t like speaking with her for too long. Her voice is too deep and eyes too unguarded to maintain the illusion, and the thought of actually speaking _her_ name makes him feel ill. “She was a great beauty,” he whispers in lieu of a real answer. He pulls a purse of coins from his pocket and drops it on the small table by her bed. He leaves her room without another word and without taking the services he brought the money for, and she does not follow after him.

It is an especially dark night. The moon is thin, but the stars are shining brilliantly against the black sky. It reminds him of the night he sailed away from Westeros on a ship with black sails, never once turning his head to look back. _Her_ voice had been ringing in his ears, as the ship pulled away. Her voice always seems to come to him in the black of night, when he finds it hardest to hide from his own thoughts.

_You’re a monster, just like your vile son and your vile sister. You’re all monsters._

He regrets the confession nearly as much as he is thankful for it. He hates recalling the disgust and horror in her eyes nearly as much as he revels in the memory of it. He prays _she_ still thinks of him nearly as much as he prays she has not spared him a single thought since that night.

“The dragons are coming. Westeros will be covered in fire soon. Mark my words,” he hears a man say. “They say she’s most beautiful woman in the world, the Mother of Dragons, and that she will not rest until she reclaims her father’s throne.”

Jaime stops short at that and positions himself behind one of the few trees that stand in Lys. He hears a woman scoff. “It’s her nephew the throne rightly belongs to. Ami has it the two have made common cause.”

“Well, I imagine the Queen’s dragons didn’t leave him much of a choice. She’ll take the throne herself. Mark my words, Alya.”

“You’re a godsdamned fool, Benito. The throne is rightly the boy’s.”

“And what do you care for Westerosi law? They’re both more Essosi than anything. She won’t care for the law either, not with those dragons of hers. Mark my words, Alya.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, your words have been marked, Benito.”

The two walk away from him after that, and he emerges from behind the tree with a pounding heart. He has heard rumors of dragons in the slaver cities before, of a violet-eyed queen conquering cities and setting any man or woman who wears chains free. But he has never heard of her marching toward Westeros or of a nephew, a nephew who could only be the dead son, or maybe not-so-dead son, of Rhaegar Targaryen.

As he runs back home, only one thought runs through his mind. _I have to warn her._

 

* * *

 

Sansa can’t tear her eyes away from the puddle of white silk and gray lace on the floor of her chambers. The dress is her mother’s creation. Sansa resented the dress at first, hated it even, but she has to admit she has never felt more beautiful than when wrapped in the delicate fabric her mother crafted to fit her to perfection. It is a shame for such a garment to lay discarded on the floor. But her husband had made quick work of it, caring nothing for the magnificent pearls that spilled across the floor when he tore open the bodice. Even if it is ruined, she thinks she ought to pick it up, ought to try to salvage whatever is left of it, but she remains frozen in the chair by her window.

She looks away from the dress and closes her eyes, as the cool, night breeze washes over her skin. There’s a gallingly satisfying ache between her legs and gooseflesh still raising the hairs on her arms. There are more than a few things she dislikes in her new husband, but she cannot deny his beauty or his prowess in at least this aspect of being a husband.

It was an awkward wedding. Few were satisfied by the outcome. The majority of the wedding guest wore scowls instead of grins, and the bride and groom heard more appeals for positions on the Small Council or pleas for control of lands the war had left wrecked and unclaimed than well wishes or words of congratulations. It doesn't truly bother Sansa. She has learned the mark of an effectual compromise is that no one is left happy.

She might not love her new husband, but she does not regret her marriage, not when it has put an end to a war that stole the lives and lands and loved ones of far too many, including herself. Tempers are still running high. There are Targaryen loyalists who still whisper that it was her sister—the Shadow, that’s what they named her during the war—who slashed the dagger across Daenerys Targaryen’s throat, and Jon Snow’s dear friend Samwell Tarly who arranged the death of the dragons with his allies at the Citadel. The Stark loyalists have whispers of their own, that Aegon is not the son of Rhaegar Targaryen but an Essosi bastard masquerading as a prince—a man not even worthy of breathing in Sansa’s presence, let alone sitting the Iron Throne in her place.

Convincing her people to accept Aegon as their King had been the most difficult part of the compromise. It is Jon they wanted her to marry. It is Jon they believe to be the true blood of Rhaegar Targaryen at Howland Reed’s word. It is Jon they wanted as their King, because it was Jon who stole Aegon’s dragon and defeated the Others before they could turn the North into a dead, barren wasteland. But Jon denied his claim and killed the last dragon himself, choosing to forsake all claims to the kingdom and his Targaryen blood to put on a black cloak once again and rebuild the Wall the war had left in pieces.

And then it was she who denied her own son’s claim, who cast her beloved Rickard off his throne for a Targaryen she cared little for. There were still too many men behind Aegon’s cause, and even if she could have defeated him in the end, too much blood had already been shed. And so it came to be that she is no longer Sansa Stark or Sansa Baratheon but Sansa Targaryen, a name she never could have imagined she’d wear even in her wildest fantasies.

Rickard hates her for it, and Lyanna hates Rickard for hating her for it, and Aegon hates them both for existing, for having the blood of the Usurper running through their veins. It is not the family she imagined for herself as a girl, but with time, she is confident she can douse the burned bridges that are keeping them apart. She has faced greater challenges than this with fewer allies on her side.

_If he ever hurts you, I will destroy him. Just say the word, and I will._ That’s what Arya had whispered in her ear before Rickon walked her down the aisle to her dragon husband. It should have been Father she linked arms with, but he perished in a sea of dragon fire. It should have been Robb she linked arms with, but he died in a sea of ice. It should have been Bran even, but he refused because the Kingslayer had left him a broken man. And so it was Rickon, her wild little brother, who rumors have it killed a thousand Others with a single obsidian dagger and his own teeth.

Sansa had smiled at Arya. _I know, sister_ , she whispered back. But she was not afraid, still isn’t afraid. Aegon won’t hurt her. He may suffer from a childish temper, but there is none of the darkness in him she sometimes senses in other men. He may look at her sister in a way that reminds her of her first husband, but she will win him over quickly enough, and if she can’t, she’ll destroy him like she’s destroyed the other man who got in her way. If she can ruin Robert Baratheon, the man who struck down Rhaegar Targaryen at the Trident, if she can ruin Jaime Lannister, the man who stabbed the Mad King in the back, and if she can ruin Petyr Baelish, the man who came from nothingness to pull the strings of nearly the whole of Westeros before his mysterious death, then she can ruin this petulant little husband of hers. And she can ruin him without those whose loyalty he still commands ever realizing it was her.

She does not love him, and he does not love her, but it matters surprisingly little to her. Love has brought her no happiness in life. Sometimes she thinks it is only in her to love monsters, to love men who will bring her nothing but misery. Perhaps it is better she does not love Aegon. Perhaps he might actually bring her some measure of happiness because of it.

She doesn’t realize what she’s doing until she hears the click of the wooden panel coming free from the back of her writing table. Only a single piece of parchment sits in the hidden compartment. Petyr kept stunning jewels and the darkest secrets of the kingdom hidden here once, but she only hides a letter, only half of a letter really. Most of it is addressed to Tyrion Lannister, only three sentences were written for her.

_Please listen when Tyrion gives you my warning. The dragons are coming.  
_

_I’m sorry for everything._

_Jaime_

She has read those words every night since Tyrion presented the letter to her and told her they must prepare for war. She has run her finger over them so many times that the words are barely legible anymore. But the ink could fade completely, and she would still know the words by heart.

_I’m sorry for everything._ She tries to imagine those words in his voice, tries to imagine the look on his face and the set of his shoulders when he says them. She didn’t believe his first apology. There was no remorse in his eyes when he revealed he pushed her brother from a tower to protect his sister. She’s not sure if she believes this apology either, but since she received the letter, she has not been able to stop reading it. She hates him for writing to her. She hates him for pulling her back with these words after pushing her so far away.

_I should burn it._ She thinks the same thing every time she runs her fingers across the crumpled, faded parchment. _I should burn it_. But she never does. She always folds it back up carefully and then tucks it in the compartment she’s sure also once held the phial of poison that stole her first husband’s life.

She suspects Jaime was hoping for a response. Tyrion asked her once if she wished to send something back. Her only answer had been narrowed eyes and a terse shake of her head. What could she possibly say to the man who left her heart broken when she was sure it had hardened too much to ever break again? She couldn’t offer him forgiveness, because she had not forgiven him. She couldn’t offer him kind words, because she barely had enough kind words left for her own family. She couldn’t even bring herself to thank him for the warning, too overcome with the shame and disappointment and _rage_ that threatened to overwhelm her when her mind lingered on him for too long.

She never wrote back, and she never burned the letter.

“Come back to bed, wife.” Her husband’s muffled voice comes just as she pulls her hand away from the secret panel. She turns to find his indigo eyes—not quite violet, not quite the color they should be as the son of Prince Rhaegar—running over her body. She might not love him, but the look sends a pleasant shiver down her spine.

“I thought you would have tired yourself out, husband,” she says coyly, as she moves toward him and reaches out to run her fingers through the soft, silver locks of his hair. When she looks at him, she thinks the princes she conjured up in her youth were always golden only because she could not conceive of this kind of beauty.

He sits up and pulls her into his lap. He twirls a strand of hair that has fallen free from her evening braid around his finger and sighs. “I think I will never tire of having you, wife. Some would call me a traitor for it.”

“Our love will heal those wounds in time.” There is no love in her heart for him yet, but if she says the word often enough, she thinks she can at least convince him that he loves her. A loving husband will be far more pliant and far easier to trust.

“ _Mm_ ,” he mumbles his agreement against her neck, as he drags his lips across her pulse. When he presses her against the bed and runs his hands across her skin, she tries to concentrate only on how her body responds to him, on how he makes her back arch and her toes curl. She sacrifices herself completely to those feelings, because she cannot bear the emptiness she feels when they are entwined.

 

* * *

 

The wedding is an obnoxiously lavish affair. He thought Cersei’s wedding to Robert impossibly gaudy, but that ceremony could never compare to the extravagance of this, of the Sealord of Braavos marrying the Black Dove.

The room is covered in expensive silks and intricate Myrrish laces. Everything seems to be made out of silver and encrusted with emeralds to match Myrcella's eyes. It makes for breathtaking scenery, but he thinks Myrcella is the centerpiece of this particular masterpiece. It is a feast for the eyes, but the guests, like her new husband, seem to only have eyes for her.

Even with the name Kerra, even with raven hair, he thinks she is pushing their cover a bit too far. Westeros cares little about the affairs of the East, but this celebration will certainly interest them. No doubt they will hear talk of the Sealord marrying a courtesan, no doubt the sailors will talk off the Black Dove’s famed beauty and lovely green eyes.

It worries him less than perhaps it should. Sansa is a married woman now, busy piecing together the burnt shambles of her kingdom. If she discerns the Black Dove’s true identity, he doesn't think she will have any interest in pursuing them, in scolding him for not keeping them as well hidden as she asked him to. It was Sansa herself that predicted Myrcella could never be bound by a simple life.

Tommen, on the other hand, has found happiness in the daily routine of their world in Lys. He works for the man who runs the menagerie in the city. It is filled with all sorts of rare animals that the wealthy men and women of the East pay outrageous amounts of coin to see up close. Tommen loves to tell him stories of his adventures taking care of these creatures. When he talks of taming the lions, of teaching them to do tricks, Jaime realizes he is no longer a boy. He’s thinned out and grown stronger and taller over the years. Lyseni girls giggle when he passes, whispering about the handsome _Dryden of the Lions_ , as they’ve come to call him. One of those girls will catch his eye soon, and he will leave the little house on the water just as Myrcella did, but Jaime doesn’t mind. They deserve the lives he and Cersei could never have.

“It was good of you to come, Father.”

It feels like his breath has been knocked out of him when he turns to see Myrcella up close. She is more radiant than he has ever seen her, draped in shocking green and silver silks with a silver and emerald circlet holding back her raven tresses. He finds himself wishing he could have seen Cersei like this at their own wedding. It killed him when he realized he could never marry his sister, when he realized he would never be able to show the world their love. “You look stunning, daughter. I hope your Sealord recognizes what he has.”

She gives him a wicked smile he never could have imagined on the face of the bashful girl she had been in King’s Landing. “Oh, he does, trust me.”

“And are you happy?”

“Happier than I have ever been.”

The people around them look at her like she is their queen and perhaps, in a way, she is. There are no queens in the Free Cities, but the Sealord’s wife is certainly the closest one can get to such a title. _She would have made for an amazing queen_ , Sansa had told him, and once again, she had been right.

“Then I am happy for you.”

When he arrives back home, he can think of nothing but weddings. He remembers the wedding he imagined for he and Cersei when he was a boy, when he was too silly to understand the ridiculousness of such a dream. He also considers what Sansa’s wedding to the Dragon King had been like. He wonders if it had been a somber ceremony, if their supporters stood on opposite sides of the sept like they were preparing for battle and glared at each other all through the vows.

Even if he hates the Targaryen boy on principle, even if sometimes he still dreams of Sansa calling upon him to kill the pretender and help her take her kingdom back, he hopes she has found some happiness with him.

_I love you, Jaime._

Part of him fears that he crushed that possibility for her forever. He is another shattered dream for her when she had so many already shattered, and it makes him feel like the monster she claimed he was when he thinks on it for too long.

He sits at his writing table and begins to scratch familiar words of apology across the parchment. He has written these words a thousand times, whenever he finds himself regretting not putting more into the warning letter he sent to Tyrion.

_I’m sorry, Sansa._ That’s how they all begin. And they all end tossed in the fire. She will not appreciate his words, no matter how poetic he can manage to make them. He made the right decision when he pushed her away, and he will not allow himself to pull her back.

 

* * *

 

The wedding is a simple affair, but it is still more than she ever expected for her sister and Gendry. They have been lovers since before the war, but Sansa and Gendry have never quite managed to convince Arya to say the marriage vows until now.

She knighted Gendry for his valiant service during the war and considered offering to make him a member of Rickard’s Kingsguard to keep him close to Arya. She’s glad she didn’t now, Aegon wouldn’t stand for another Baratheon at court, and he and Arya could have never had this moment if he accepted. But she did offer him a lordship. With so many of the Stormlords dead after the war, there were an abundance of lands and holdfasts perfect for a Baratheon bastard to assume, but he refused her before she could even finish asking.

She’s glad of his refusal now. A lady’s life is not the life for Arya. Instead, she and her bastard lover have traveled across the East and all the way to Sothoryos, only now finally returning to Winterfell to live a different, simpler sort of life. Gendry loves Winterfell’s forge, and Arya loves being so close to Jon, and Bran loves having all the Starks back in Winterfell, and Sansa loves seeing them all so happy again. It has been a long time since they were all together, since before Father died and Mother followed him only shortly afterwards.

The long journey to Winterfell has left her exhausted. Overjoyed as she is to see her family and Winterfell, she is not sure how much longer she can resist the rest her body is desperate for. Before she can protest and insist she’s perfectly fine, her son Rickard, a man grown now, sweeps her up into his strong arms. He is the spitting image of how she remembers Renly Baratheon, beautiful and lean and always smiling. “Don’t even try to claim you’re not worn out,” he warns, teasing, “Now where is it you want to go?”

She is so thankful he decided to come that she almost can’t hold back tears. Even though he forgave her giving up his throne for peace, he still fled King’s Landing at his first opportunity. He never liked Aegon, and he and his half-sister Elia are far too stubborn to ever see eye-to-eye on anything. Their fights are louder and more brutal than she and Arya’s ever were, but so far they have both managed to be civil. It helps that Lyanna and Jaehaerys have come as well. They are the levelheaded ones of her four children, and the only ones who can force Elia and Rickard to make peace, at least for their mother’s sake. It is good to finally have all of her children with her, but it is especially good to see Rickard—her first babe and her first love, the child that kept her going even when she was truly miserable, the child’s future she was forced to sacrifice for a kingdom.

“To the crypts, if you would. Did Bran ever show you were they were?”

Rickard is the Lord of Storm’s End now, but he has traveled to Winterfell many times over the years, far more than she has been able to. “Of course he did.”

They descend into the dark crypts. When they reach the bottom of the stairs, he sets her down and hands her a torch, allowing her to lead the way. Tears fill her eyes, as she passes Father’s and Robb’s statues, but it is Lyanna Stark’s she stops in front of, recalling the pale woman in the black gown from her dream. “I almost died during Lyanna’s birth, you know,” she sighs, running her fingers over the grooves of Lyanna’s dress. “I passed out and had a dream I was back in Winterfell. Lyanna told me I was rushing the sands of time and that I needed to go back and fight. I think it’s the only reason I’m alive.”

Rickard is not looking at Lyanna’s image. He is looking resolutely at her instead. “I’m sorry for the way I treated you, Mother. I’m sorry about how angry I was.”

“Oh, my love, it is no matter—”

“No, it matters,” he interrupts, bowing his head. “You did what you had to do to save the realm and to save Lyanna and me from harm. I was godsdamned fool to be angry with you, after all you’ve been through, and I’m sorry.”

_I poisoned your father. I made a pact with the Kingslayer to kill him. And I would have fucked the Kingslayer had he wanted me._ For a moment, she considers being honest, but she stays quiet like she always does. She couldn’t bear to see the disgust in her son’s eyes. “I never blamed you, son. I wanted you to be the King so badly. And please never tell your brother, but some days I still wish you were to be King.”

Rickard wraps his arms around her increasingly frail body. “Jaehaerys will make for a fine king.”

Sansa nods, knowing it’s the truth. He’s a good boy, kind and patient and always willing to compromise, nothing like his hot-blooded father and sister. Even if he looks the most foreign of her children with his pale silver almost white hair and bright violet eyes, he reminds her the most of her father. “Yes, he will.”

Yes, Jaehaerys is a sweet boy, and Lyanna and Elia have also made her proud in their own ways. Elia looks the most like her with her summer blue eyes and fiery red hair. Her youngest child is a strange mix of herself and Arya, always taking care to look perfect but wielding sharp retorts instead of courteous words as her weapons.

Lyanna, on the other hand, is entirely Sansa save for the love of swords. She is sweet and gentle and always courteous. But that all fades away when she grips a sword in her hand and challenges her brothers to duels she wins more often than not, at least against Jaehaerys.

She loves them all so much, and she’s come to love her husband as well. He is a good man at heart who has kept only to her bed all these years, even now that she is old and gray while he only seems to grow more handsome with age. It is not an all consuming, passionate love. It is nothing like the surge of overwhelming emotions she felt for the Kingslayer, but she has decided that is a good thing. It is a slow-burning love, a mutual respect they grew into something more over time, a love like Mother once described to her when she spoke of her own marriage.

Her mind still wanders to _him_ sometimes—when Aegon bows between her legs like the Kingslayer had that night in the godswood, when she hears tales of the Black Dove with her mesmerizing green eyes from across the Narrow Sea, and when she pulls his letter from its hiding place at night and runs her fingertips over the now all but vanished words. It is never quite clear to her how she feels when she thinks of him, if it is love or wrath that fills her. She never allows herself to think long enough on it to decide.

When she and Rickard emerge from the crypts, she can’t help but laugh when she sees Lyanna and Arya sparring in the yard with the rest of their family watching on. Aegon is cheering for Lyanna, and Jaehaerys is grinning from ear to ear with Rickon’s daughter Cat balanced in his arms. Elia has turned her nose up at the display, but Sansa can see the smile she’s doing her absolute best to hide. Rickard dashes over quickly to catch the end of the battle, but Sansa turns away from them.

She doesn’t want to go where she knows her feet are taking her. She wishes she could talk herself out of it, but before long she is standing underneath the tower and staring up at the window Bran must have been standing in when he saw the Lannister twins together. She looks at the ground under her feet, and can hear the screams again. She can hear Mother’s violent sobbing and the way Summer had whined and whined while he paced in front of Bran’s bed. _This is where it happened. This is where he pushed my brother._

She is older now. She knows there are different kinds of love, not just the beautiful, adoring version she clung to during her younger years, before Jaime Lannister broke her heart and before she married Aegon Targaryen. Love can be cruel. It can be mean and destructive and hurt more than it heals. Love can be beautiful. It can be sweet and lovely and give those who have all but given up a reason to hope again. Love can be fast and consuming like fire, and it can be slow and aching like ice. It can fill one with happiness and satisfaction, and it can fill one with the most dreadful guilt.

It is guilt she feels now, as she stands beneath the tower. It manifests as a gnawing in her gut and a low buzzing in her ears. It is guilt because sometimes she worries she loved the Kingslayer—a monster, a villain, a murderer—better than she has ever loved her husband. It is guilt because sometimes she worries she still wants fire more than ice, passion instead of respect, and she hates herself for it.

“Feeling all right, Sansa?”

Gendry places one of his large hands on her shoulder. The touch pulls her out of her thoughts, and she forces herself to smile. “Fine, just—there’s just so many memories here.”

Gendry nods. “Some good and some bad, I imagine.”

“More good than bad. I didn’t realize how much I loved this place until I left it. It really is the perfect place for you and Arya to finally call home.”

Gendry smiles and says, “Your sister _is_ my home.”

It is a simple statement, but it strikes Sansa to her core. She does her best to cut their conversation short without being rude and flees to her old room. She takes out Jaime’s letter from the hidden pocket of her fur-lined cloak, where it has been hiding since she left King’s Landing, and presses it down on the writing table. There are no words that can express her anger and her regret and all of the other feelings churning in her gut when she thinks of him and reads his words— _I’m sorry for everything_ —but she finds herself writing some anyways.

_I am well. I am happy._

It is all she can bear to write, and she doesn’t even know why she wants him to read this. But when she folds the paper, she is relieved to realize the claims don’t feel like a lie. She is well, and she is happy, even if she’s never entirely let him go.

It will be a tricky thing to get the letter to him. She knows from Tyrion where he resides, and she knows from rumors where Myrcella now calls home, but to send a letter across the Narrow Sea is no easy task. Still, she has managed greater feats than this. She has saved a kingdom from death and dragon fire; surely she can send a letter.

She finds a man who insists his brother captains a ship that travels between White Harbor and the Free Cities twice a year. She gives him a heavy bag of golden coins, and he promises to do as she wishes. She’s not sure if she believes him. It wouldn’t surprise her at all to one day learn he ran off with her money and threw her letter into the sea, but it still feels good to watch him ride off with it and to know she will never pull it out at night to read it ever again. It feels like an ending. It feels like closure. It feels like peace.

And it will be enough.

 

* * *

 

It still feels strange to walk past the room Myrcella and Tommen shared and find it empty. Tommen has moved into a home in the heart of the city and runs the menagerie on his own now. He has not seen Myrcella in years, since her wedding to the Sealord. He is alone, but it is okay. He might have failed with Joffrey, but Myrcella is living the life of a queen and Tommen is happy with his animals, and it gives him some satisfaction to know he helped make that happen.

The smell of roasting pig drifts into his room from the fire outside. He doesn’t remember when Cala started coming by his home to cook evening meals or when she stopped asking for coin after they fucked or when she started acting in the way his wife might have, had ever had a wife. They rarely speak—in fact, they can go entire weeks without saying a single word to each other—and they can go moons without even fucking now, but her mere presence staves off the loneliness he suspects would consume him otherwise.

He doesn’t love the redheaded whore who always appears in the evenings and is always gone by the time sun rises, but he never hoped to find love anyways. Cersei’s ghost still walks at his side, waiting for him to finally join in her in the afterlife like he should have when she drew her last breath so many years ago.

Sansa Stark haunts him as well, in a way, especially when he finds himself entranced by the colors in Cala’s hair and can’t stop hearing Sansa’s declarations of love in his ears. But he decided a long time ago that it is good he didn’t have longer with either woman. It is good he lost them both. His love for Cersei was destined to turn them into something twisted and ugly, to crash and burn in the way all great passions eventually do. And his love for Sansa would have been a lie. It would have meant acting, constantly pretending that he was a better man.

It is good that he is alone. He is a sad and gray old man, and even Cala is more than he deserves, but he can’t quite bring himself to send her away.

There is a folded, faded piece of parchment sitting on his writing table that he doesn’t notice until he lights the candles by his bed. It is tough and wrinkled from moisture. The ink of whatever was written on the front has run down the parchment in unreadable black streaks. Cautious not to destroy the letter further, he unfolds the parchment and gasps when he sees the small, perfect script written beneath his final words to Sansa.

_I am well. I am happy._

There is no name signed at the bottom, no indication of whom the words are from, but he knows they were written by one of Sansa’s delicate hands. He collapses into his chair, as his eyes travel across the six simple words over and over again, desperately searching for the meaning behind them.

They do not read like forgiveness. They do not read like gratitude or longing or loathing or anything at all really. But, nevertheless, they ease some of gnawing in his stomach that hasn’t faded since he sailed away into the night.

They read like acceptance. It isn’t much, and perhaps it isn’t what he hoped for. But it will be enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, there it is. Sorry it's up a bit later than I said it would be--I decided to do some spontaneous traveling.
> 
> I liked the open-ended ending of the last chapter, but I also felt like this story needed some closure. I hope this wasn't too depressing (I really was trying to go for bittersweet), and that you enjoyed it.
> 
> I want thank you all for reading and for your support! It was awesome reading your comments after every chapter. I'm already trying to plot out some new fics, so hopefully I'll be posting again soon. :)
> 
> Thank you for reading!


End file.
